The Rewards of Motherhood

I often write about how hard it is to be a mother.   Recently, one of my best friends warned me of the dangers.   If I keep telling everyone how hard it is, I’m going to scare all the future mamas away. 

The rewards of motherhood are difficult to explain because the job is too complex and nuanced for simple words.  So I’ll just tell the story of a yoga class I went to on Mother’s Day.

Toward the end of the class, the instructor suggested we try a headstand.  With several blank stares from my classmates and me, she reminded us that success was achieved just by trying.  We should avoid comparing ourselves to our neighbor.  We need to let go of perfection or what we think it should look like.  

Now that’s good advice for anyone, especially mamas. 

So I decided to just focus on my own effort and try my best.  I started slowly.  I wobbled and doubted myself.  I cursed through several failed attempts. 

In the midst of this struggle, I could hear my own mom clearer than ever before.  Even with doubt, you are doing it right.  At your own way, at your own speed.   You are making positive progress by taking things inch-by-inch, day-by-day, and year-by-year.  You will only get better through practice and daily failures.  

I wanted to keep trying.  I wanted to spit in the face of fear.  

My legs trembled as they slowly rose over my head.   The process felt messy, wrong, and unnatural.   But I had found a way to do my best. 

Then in those three seconds where my feet remained above my head, I remembered a story that a coworker wrote on a Card at my mother’s funeral: 

“My fondest memory of Joan is when we were in yoga class together and it was time for the headstand!  Joan went right up against the wall and let out such a shriek that people thought she fell over.  We laughed all night over it!”  - L. 

My mother physically and emotionally had done this same headstand.   She had struggled and swore and sweated the small stuff through parenting.  She was brave in the attempt. 

And that’s how I’d sum up the rewards of motherhood, and life in general.   It’s the squeal of delight in knowing that even with your world turned upside down, you can do it.   

Butterflies are free

Once again I am faced with the feelings of powerlessness in the face of tragedy.  The grief I feel for this country is too large to hold in my heart.  There is a massive problem with guns, hate, and intolerance.  

I cannot fix what has come before me, but I do have an opportunity to fix what is ahead of me.  The greatest tools of influence I hold are the two children that I shepherd.   If I can make them better, then I can make the future better.   

I believe in the butterfly effect.   This is the theory that small change in a complex system can have large effects elsewhere.   I imagine the tiny breeze created from a gentle butterfly has the cumulative effect to create strong winds thousands of miles away. 

I want to create big winds of change.  I want to cause storms of kindness.   I want to build two beautiful butterflies with strong, kind wings.  I must start with what I can control, no matter how small.

Here’s what I think we can do as individuals, parents, and leaders:

Spend wisely:  Buy experiences not things.  Spend your money on trips, not toys.  Find ways for your children to experience different cultures, different environments, and different people.   I think hate is born out of fear, and fear is hard to hold onto when you try new things.   As an added bonus, when you have less stuff to clean, organize, and sort, you have more time to enjoy, learn, and explore.

Live consciously:  I’m often surprised at how much I am teaching my children even when I’m not trying.   My daughter and son are watching me most in my daily routines.  They are watching how I behave, what I love, and the words I choose.  I’ve often found Amelia talking to herself in the mirror, pretending to be me.   I want her mirror to be a good one. 

Speak lovingly:  Be abundant with tender words.   Don’t be afraid to say, “I love you” to anyone.  I say it out loud to my husband, kids, and family.  But I also tell it to friends, coworkers, and even the occasional stranger who helps me in the checkout line.  Don’t assume others know how you feel.   It’s the easiest and cheapest way to make other people feel great about themselves.  

In these big tragedies, start small to heal.  Be your own butterfly.  

Sanity Check

I recently attended a retreat in Indianapolis hosted by the fantastic podcasters at NapTime Radio called Sanity Check 2016.  Over the weekend, I met a diverse group of moms from around the country searching for the same thing.  Sanity.

Each of us craved a reminder of our original selves - as well as the relief from the pressures of parenthood.  All of us were women first, moms second. 

For just a weekend, we wanted to have less responsibility, less worry, and more freedom to pee in private.   We needed a safe place to swear without poisoning little ears.  We wanted to talk over an extended brunch about ugly politics, challenging careers, or past relationships.  Some took the opportunity to stay out late.  Some just went to bed early.   There was no judging. 

These moms were not reckless in their pursuit of a weekend away.  I saw moms repeatedly calling home to ensure the carpool was organized and the kids were fed.   I’d argue these moms were taking more responsibility by attending to their own sanity.  We moms need to put on our own oxygen masks on before helping others.  No one works harder than a mom.  No one should play harder.

The sliver of original bricks at the Indy 500

On Saturday, the NapTime Radio team scheduled a tour of the Indy 500 speedway.  We learned that the original bricks of the racetrack were worn down over the years and replaced with new concrete.  Yet the track owner kept a sliver of bricks exposed as a reminder of the history of the race.  In the Indy 500, the driver who wins the race is encouraged to kiss the original bricks as a symbol of victory.

I could relate to that track.  I remain strong and resilient in the face of repeated wear and tear as a mom.   But just when the race feels too long, I come across that sliver of my own original bricks. 

Sanity Check 2016 reminded me that I could embrace my original self every once in a while.   There is no winning or losing in the race of motherhood.   There is just victory in being vulnerable and honest.   As moms, we need sanity.  And as women, we need each other.    Sanity – check! 

"Kissing the bricks!"

The irony of MORE

Mom and Amelia hard at work.  

When I was in my twenties, I often criticized my mom for staying in the same job too long.  In my opinion, she held a job that was significantly below her talent level.  She worked as a medical billing manager, overseeing a team that spent most of the day coding insurance claims.

As a teen, I was given the opportunity to work a few extra hours in her office, and I found the work boring.  She scolded me for using my elbow to prop up my head as I typed.  I was embarrassing her.  

But I believed she was embarrassing me.  I thought that her leadership skills and work ethic could have earned her more pay, more prestige, more promotions.  More, more, MORE.  

I pressed her to get a better job.  She always politely shook her head, telling me that she lacked a college education, loved her team, and wanted to be close to her children during the school years.   

Now here I am in my forties, working for the same company for the last eleven years, and staying in my job to be close to my kids during their younger years.  Mom is probably snickering up in heaven for all those years I was such a prick.  

If I worked elsewhere I myself could have more career potential.   I want to ‘lean in’ to my career, but I also need to stop leaning so hard on myself.  I want to be both Sheryl Sandberg and Betty Crocker.  But like most realities, I can't be both.  

Recently, I was able to volunteer at Amelia's elementary school to help pack meals for the homeless.  She stood next to me as I directed the kids, measuring each ingredient for a hearty soup mix.   Other kids wanted to change jobs, but not Amelia.  She wanted to work with me.  

Fate is just funny that way.  I may never be Sheryl Sandberg.  I will most definitely never be Betty Crocker, but I can be the blend that works - Sheryl Crocker, Betty Sandberg, or just me.  

I get it now, mom.   You always wanted more for me.  I wanted more for you.  We always wanted more for each other. 

That 'more' just manifests in ways we don't expect.  I may not have more promotions or pay in my future, but I already have what I need.  I got it from mom, and now I'm giving it to Amelia.  

Parenting Pop Quiz

When I was pregnant, many people told me that parenting was hard.  

"Yeah, yeah," I thought.  I'm tough.  I got this.  

Turns out, parenting got me.  Or rather my ideals about proper parenting got me.   What I expected and what happens on a daily basis are wildly different.  

If you've ever wondered if you've got what it takes to be a parent, then here's a handy pop quiz.  If you can identify at least one thing wrong with each of these photos, then you are going to be a great mom or dad.  

Go ahead, you got this.  

QUESTION #1:

What's wrong here?  There are NO DOUGHNUTS in my cart!  Everyone knows that mothers of newborns are required to enjoy at least one Krispy Kreme an hour during those first weeks.  It feels a shame not to tell you this now.  Keep going.  

QUESTION #2:

What's wrong here?  Amelia is not a teenager, yet she already looks bored and annoyed with me! I can almost feel her eye rolling technique starting to form.  The only thing right about this moment is that I'm on a business trip during potty training.  

QUESTION #3:

What’s wrong here?   It’s a violation of the traditional parenting rule, “No pants, no problem.”   I mean, if he had pants, I’m sure he’d smile and agree to sit in the high chair, right? 

 

QUESTION #4:

What’s wrong here?  I only have two children, but about forty two sippie cups.  These evil cups magically multiply like bunnies.  But when I really need a clean one, I can’t find one.  Plus, none of them are actually spill proof.  Just warning you - these suckers are tricky.   

QUESTION #5:

What’s wrong here?  He’s cute, but he left too much evidence of his first ‘Five Finger Discount”.  If he’s going to steal all the salad bar food before we checkout, then at least he needs to make it less obvious.  Always remember to wipe the face and remove all pineapple from the shoe.  

 

QUESTION #6:

What’s wrong here?  There’s no whiskey in my coffee!  If you are going to have a toddler pull your hair while having a temper tantrum in public, you really should have strong liquor in your cup, or at least some cheap wine.   My bad. 

 

QUESTION #7:

What’s wrong here?  I'm unable to maintain good personal hygiene.  Good parents take a shower when their child sleeps.  My kid takes naps in the shower.   I clearly skipped the day they taught sleep and shower seperation in parenting class.   I know you can do better than me. 

 

QUESTION #8:

What’s wrong here (other than agreeing to go on a group camping trip with an infant)?  I can’t decide if it’s the proximity to wine bottles, sharp knives, bug spray, or hot coffee.  It’s probably the red bead necklace with my pink shirt.  Yup, that’s it.  My outfit totally clashes. 

 

BONUS QUESTION:

What’s wrong here?  NOTHING.  Everything is right about this picture.  Because when you survive a moment like this and live to laugh about it, then you’re going to make it in this parenting thing. 

Here’s the secret folks:  There are no right or wrong actions.  You are a good parent by just trying to be one.  There are days everything will go wrong.  There are moments everything will go right.  Everything else in between will just be funny….someday.

Leprechauns, Luck, and Loss

Earlier this week, my five-year-old daughter asked me about St. Patrick’s Day and leprechauns. I didn’t want to inadvertently start some new candy-infused tradition, so I dug into something rare with kids and holiday characters – the truth. 

“Leprechauns don’t bring you anything,” I said. 

“Nothing?!” she asked in disbelief.

“Well, sometimes they bring you luck,” I replied trying to appease her. 

She didn’t understand the concept of luck.  As I struggled to define the word, I started to think about my complicated relationship with luck through my life.

When I was younger, I thought I was really lucky.

Then when my mom got cancer, I questioned whether I was still a lucky person.  Her cancer started really small and insignificant.  Each time we thought she was cured, doctors told us there was only a small chance that it would return.  

I believed the harder I worked, the luckier I would become.  Fate was something I could control.   Yet my mom relapsed four times, despite all my research on new treatments, doctor visits, and hospital overnights.

During her illness, I was also single.  I thought I could change my luck in love by trying harder.  I participated in speed dating, online personals and set-ups from strangers.  But no magnitude of bad dates seemed to change things.  I was still single, and my mom was still dying. 

I felt pretty angry about how unlucky I felt.  I blamed God, fate, and myself.  I assumed maybe I had done something bad or wrong in life. 

But what I didn’t realize was that my struggles were not related to luck.  There were some things I could control, and some things I couldn’t.  Luck had nothing to do with it.

I was grateful to have my mom for all the years I did.  I was lucky to recognize what I wanted in a husband by learning what I didn’t want in one. 

Once I let go of my anger and expectations, I found gratitude in my struggles. 

No matter how much I try to shield Amelia, she will feel unlucky at some point in her life.  It’s my job to teach her how to find grace when she doesn’t get what she wants. 

I still believe in luck, I just don’t rely on it.  Life is full of delightful surprises and good fortune.  But when it doesn’t, I don’t blame the leprechaun at the end of the rainbow.  I look for my own gratitude somewhere in that cloud. 

Amelia trying her luck with a NCAA basketball bracket...

My First Minnesota Caucus

In my life with two kids under the age of five, something that only comes around once every four years feels magical.  This Minnesota presidential caucus was my equivalent of half price diapers or sippie cups that don’t leak – a mysterious and critical rarity. 

I don’t consider myself a particularly political person, but I’d like to think I’ve learned a few things about fighting for my rights.  I’ve fought for equal share of dishes and laundry with my faithful husband.  I’ve negotiated sharing of glitter markers between a headstrong kindergartener and her toddler brother.   I’ve suffered through enough mom guilt as a working parent.

In order to caucus, I had to be at the local middle school by 7:00pm and stay for an hour.   Most Americans would call this reasonable.   I call this a violation of ‘the witching hour’ rule.   If you get your kids to bed before the end of the witching hour, everyone wins.  If you miss this window, it could turn into the parenting equivalent of a mind-numbing filibuster. 

My husband and I planned to keep the kids at home and stagger our participation.  Yet at 5:03pm, I heard the fateful ding from my phone alerting me to a new text.   My husband had to work late.  Dammit.  On days like this, Murphy’s Law is a powerful nemesis. 

I frantically called our last minute babysitter.   When she arrived an hour later, I threw my remaining dinner into a Ziploc baggie and agreed to let my kids eat Fruit Loops instead of broccoli.   Whatever.  I just needed to get to the middle school by 7pm.  I haven’t had this much determination to achieve something since potty training. 

Yet, as I drove from our quiet neighborhood onto a side street, I had to slam on the brakes.  Red taillights streamed ahead of me.  My first thought was of prayer.  There must be an accident.

But as I inched along, seeing more and more cars squeeze into the line of traffic, it dawned on me that all these people may actually be going to caucus, too.   And I began to question if our founding fathers realized that getting thousands of voters to one location within a one-hour time window was sensible or sustainable - even with fancy traffic apps. 

By the time I finally made the two-mile drive, I felt like I was already late for the party.  The building was buzzing with people of all ages.  Local high school kids were directing people to the right classroom for their voting precinct.   Everyone else looked as excited and eager as I was for this freedom.

In this moment, I knew I was doing the right thing.  I was being counted.  I was being a good mom, even with my kids eating sugary cereal and making messes at home.  

There I was, in a small classroom with my neighbors hearing candidates talk about their passions for the future.   While at times I felt like I was electing a senior class president rather than a federal presidential nominee, I still felt enchanted.  I was voting for myself, but also for my children. 

Participating in this Minnesota caucus felt like another of those important parenting lessons.   You don’t always have to be grand or wealthy or wise; sometimes you just have to show up. 

Run, Sarah, Run

Every morning it takes great courage for me to put my daughter on the bus, waving to her as she departs off to school.

But this is nothing compared to the courage of my friend Sarah, who stands next to me at that bus stop waving to her seven-year-old son, too.

On the surface, Colton looks just like any other eager second grader.  He’s got a goofy smile, happy outlook, and always carrying his backpack on one shoulder while leaping on the bus with youthful enthusiasm. 

But Colton also has a debilitating genetic disorder called neurofibromatosis (NF).  NF causes tumors to grow all over the nervous system and can cause blindness, deafness, learning disabilities and severe chronic pain. These tumors can also become cancerous.  There is no treatment and no cure for NF.   

One of the most difficult parts for Sarah is telling people about Colton.  Currently, Colton has a large inoperable tumor in his upper leg and other small tumors he is managing with the help of his doctors.  But otherwise, Colton looks normal and healthy right now. 

For Sarah, this is both a blessing and a curse.  The blessing is that Colton’s condition has not yet developed into visible restrictions to his daily life.  Yet the curse is that the seriousness of his condition remains hidden from friends and family. 

They say that parenting feels like your heart is walking outside of your body.   Sarah’s heart is walking around, leaping on a bus every morning, with an incurable disease that can manifest further at any moment.  NF is a progressive disease, and there isn't much more Sarah can do other than watch and wait.  It leaves her feeling fearful, powerless and without any control.

I have immense and knee buckling respect for any mama that can live this way.

Two years ago while researching NF, Sarah learned about Cupid's Undie Run, which benefits the Children's Tumor Foundation.  They discovered this fundraiser for NF research to help find treatments and a cure. Can you imagine the amount of overwhelming research she did?  She told me, “That’s just what you do when you find out your child has an illness you have never heard of before his diagnosis.”

Sarah and her husband Nick knew that fundraising for critical research that may one day help Colton was something they couldn't ignore.  They wanted to get involved - and in a big way.  It is something - the only thing - they CAN do to try to make a difference, hopefully in Colton's lifetime.

That, my friends, is courage.

I will never know exactly what Sarah is going through.  But I do know what helps: Listening.  Learning.  Caring.

So I’m listening to her, learning about NF, and caring about Sarah.   She is the unsung hero in this story. 

Here in Minneapolis on Saturday, February 13th, the temperatures will be frigid, and Sarah will be running in Cupid’s Undie run.  But I’m certain Sarah has endured more than a run in the cold. 

I can imagine her running and thinking, “Is this all you got, winter?  Do you know I am stronger?  Do you know how far I would run in the cold for Colton?” 

Bring it, Minnesota.   She’s ready to run.

P.S.  You can help by donating to Sarah’s campaign or joining a team.  Together, we can be the difference in the lives of children and help #endNF.

Not Anymore

Over the holidays, my two-year-old son surprised us with a new phrase while I was changing a particularly messy diaper.

“Don’t want wipes,” he declared.  “Not anymore.” 

No wipes?  I didn’t understand what he had against cleaning wipes.  Then I saw his red, sore bottom under that poopy mess.  He didn’t want wipes because it makes his diaper rash hurt a lot more.

I sympathized, but I had to do what I had to do.  Poor boy.

Yet, now he uses this phrase all the time.  Poor mama. 

At bedtime I hear, “Don’t want to go night-night.  Not anymore.” 

In the morning he tells me, “Don’t want socks.  Not anymore.”

When I try to put him in a sharp looking button-down shirt, “Don’t want to be handsome.  Not anymore.”

I can’t get mad at these mini-tantrums.  There are a lot of things I don’t want to do anymore, too.

Duncan will learn so many things, but the biggest lesson I hope to teach him is to manage his free will.   The journey in his life will twist and turn based on when he decides to persevere in the face of challenge and when he chooses to quit.  He will need to exercise his right to do something ‘Not Anymore’ long after he’s out of diapers and getting dressed on his own.  

But first I must set the example and quit some of my own unhelpful behaviors.  I need to stop moving so fast and slow down.  I need to stop extreme multi-tasking and rest more.   I need to quit worrying about the future and trust the journey. 

If I stop those things, then I say yes to less stress, and less regret, and more happiness. 

Yet, quitting is a new-year resolution that feels near impossible for me.  I live with unending to-do lists and ambitious dreams.  Letting go and choosing to stop doing things will be my greatest challenge of free will.  But I will persevere because I don’t want to miss these development years of my sweet Duncan.  Not anymore. 

The Light that Never Goes Out

Yesterday was the anniversary of the day that my mom died.  I can remember gently holding her hand as she took her last breath, even thirteen years later.  Time has healed the wound, but the scar is still present.

For this thirteenth year, I struggled with how to define, or dare I say ‘celebrate’, this day.  It felt strange to do my daily activities blindly.

Go to work.  Buy groceries.  Pay bills. 

Is this respectful enough of the life she led?   Thirteen years ago at this moment I was not thinking about work, or meal planning or money. 

So I did what I thought reflected my values: gratitude, reflection, and honesty. 

Gratitude:  First, I let myself have uncomfortable moments.  I thought about what I lost.  I wondered how my life would be different if she was still here.  And then, in that painful valley, I remembered all that I had gained.  She taught me how to love with compassion, live with enthusiasm, and light up others.  She gave me perspective.   Her void was back filled with so many other people that make me grateful to be alive. 

Reflection: I lit a candle and let it burn all day as a constant reminder of her presence.  In the middle of making breakfast or cleaning dishes, mom was there, too.  Her brightness remained strong in the whirlwind of daily life.  When I came back from running errands, her light was still there - reminding me she’d always be at home waiting for me.

Honesty:  I told my co-workers about the symbolism of the day.  I told new friends who didn’t know my history.  And more importantly, I told my five-year-old daughter as she sat on the kitchen counter waiting for breakfast.

“Today is the day that my mom went to heaven,” I said with tears in my eyes.  

“Before she was a hundred?” she asked quietly.

“Yes, well before that.” I said, knowing she understood.   We hugged each other, and I let that emotion sink in so I could always remember it. 

I don’t know if I spent the day in the right way.  But the bigger question is whether I’m spending this life in the right way.  This anniversary is the reminder that my life needs to be more than the daily grind.  It’s a reflective, honest, struggle that I’ll chase the rest of my life.  And for that, I’m grateful. 

The Holiday Card Hoax

My talented sister-in-law created holiday cards for me this year.  I sent her the digital files from a professional photo shoot, and she worked her creative magic. 

Our card this year is a portrait of joy and serenity.  We all have nice smiles, crisp outfits, and clean hair.  Here it is:

But really, it's not us.  The truth is our lives look nothing like this picture.  On a daily basis, Amelia refuses to brush her hair.  Duncan bites the other kids at school.  I’m wearing my pajama top as a bra until dinner. We're far from put together. 

I suddenly felt bad sending out these cards.  I don’t want to create the false perception that my life is easy breezy.  I don’t want my fellow moms, single friends, or distant relatives to think that we eat every meal in elegant attire and family bliss.

We all do it.  We all want to show our glory moments, even the ones that only last a split second. 

But I wondered why I would send out a picture of a life that wasn’t me.  I realized that I wasn’t doing it to impress my friends and family.  I was doing it for me; or rather for Future Me. 

I don’t want to look back on these difficult years and remember the dark and messy days.  I don’t want to remember losing my temper over hair brushing, the angry exchanges with my husband over laundry piles, or the scratchy feeling of stubble on my legs from not shaving for three weeks.

I want Future Me to remember that feeling, even for one moment, when we all showed up clean, happy, and smiling.

You will toss these cards after the holidays are over.   But I will keep this card so Future Me will look at these photos in twenty years and forget the sharp edges of the tough times.

I know my long-term memory will be kind and forgiving.  This holiday card will help me remember the cheek kisses, Duncan’s little suit coat, and Amelia’s shiny hair - and not the kids fighting over broken crayons, snot-stained dresses, or temper tantrums in the Target checkout line.

Until then, I’m sorry for the pretty photos, and I'll understand if you send me yours. 

P.S.  Future Me did not let me send this alternate holiday card: 

My Christmas List

One of our family traditions at Thanksgiving is to sit around the dinner table and write down three things you are thankful and three things you want for Christmas.  You fold up the card, toss it in a bowl, and then everyone has to guess whose is whose.  It’s a wonderful way to share and reflect. 

My Christmas wish list is usually easy to guess.  My family knows I’ve become somewhat of a minimalist, and I don’t like clutter.  

The things I desperately want each year are more experiences.  My list usually reads like this: more time, more travel, and more tickets.

I learned this from my mom.  When she was close to the end of her life, one of my Aunts and I gathered on her bed.  Mom wanted a distraction from the pain, so she asked that we talk about our favorite things from the past.   We talked about canoeing in the rain, sunsets on coastal vacations, and all the songs we loved from Broadway shows we saw together. 

We never talked about sweaters, electronics, or bread makers.  Those gifts had long been forgotten.  And after she died, all I wanted was more time with mom, not more things. Those tangible gifts just became clutter I had to give away.

Luckily, my husband knows me well, and he’s given some of the most memorable experience gifts.  Over the years, I’ve gotten tickets to a Justin Timberlake concert or great seats to see our favorite artist whose song was in our wedding.   And I have done the same for him by getting him tickets to events like a professional baseball game. 

In twenty, thirty, forty years from now, I won’t remember any song lyrics to the concerts or who won or lost the game.  I’ll remember singing along to JT with a friend, listening to the special song from our wedding with my husband, and proudly watching my daughter run the bases in her Elsa dress after the Nationals game. 

So when my time comes and I’m the one laying in the hospital bed, these will be my stories.   These will be the gifts I talk about with my children.   In the end, I will have less stuff to give away, yet so much more to remember.  

The Importance of Aunties

When I got married, I had sixteen bridesmaids in my wedding.  Sixteen.  Not because I wanted a big wedding, but because I had so many best friends from the different stages of my life.   Each of them walked down the aisle representing something beautiful in themselves and the friendships we created. 

These women are now becoming the Aunties to my children. 

I’m following in the steps of my mom.   She kept her best friends in her life by weaving them into the fabric of our extended family.  I grew up with many fantastic Aunts that I didn't realize were not related to me until I was old enough not to care.  In our house, Mom made the rules, but Aunties made the fun.  My kids deserve these kinds of Aunts, and I need these kinds of friends. 

I know these friendships will last because my mom proved it to me.  On the day before Mom died, her best friend from high school came from far away to visit her bedside.  This lifelong ‘Aunt’ then wrote this on The Cards at Mom’s funeral:

“Joan and I always walked each other half way home when we left each others house.  I’ll remember Sunday, January 19th as the last time I walked her half way home.”  - S

I hope to be that kind of friend, no matter the time or distance.   Life will only continue to get more challenging, and there is a long journey ahead.  The best guides will be the lifelong friends that have turned into family.  My children will know them as their Aunts, but they will first be my friends.   

And so I am reminded of the golden rules of friendship and parenting:

1. Cultivate abundant Aunties. 
2. I’m teaching my children about the importance of friendships, even if they aren’t paying attention. 
3. Always walk each other half way home. 

I don't know anything about Paris

Me at a sidewalk cafe in Europe

I don’t know what happened in Paris or Mali.  I never turn on the television at home and drive in silence in the car.   I know there were shooting and violence, but that’s about it.  It’s been an intentional choice to remain ignorant of the details.  My heart crumbles for the victims and their families, but fear stops me from going any further.   

It’s not because I don’t feel anything during tragedy, perhaps it’s that I feel too much. I’ve traveled to places in Europe and Africa.  I’ve eaten in sidewalk cafes and hotel lobbies.   It could have been me. 

My problem with fear is that I am unable to forget.  I still have nightmares from watching horror films at sleepovers when I was a teenager.  Nearly thirty years later, you won’t find me in a cornfield, an empty hotel, or near anyone with a hockey mask.  These days, I can’t even watch a trailer for a horror film. 

This tricky combo of fear without forgetting makes daily living even more challenging for me.  I have imagined being on a plane headed for a tower.  I have imagined feeling trapped in a college lecture hall.  I have imagined racing to the elementary school desperately praying my child was not in that classroom. 

But if I stayed in my house and did nothing, I still would not be safe from harm. For now, I will remain uninformed and active.  Not because I don’t want the terrorists to win, but because I don’t want to stop enjoying my life.  This may not be the best strategy, but it’s all I’ve got to continue to travel, learn, and put my daughter on the school bus every morning. 

None of us know what will happen next.  There is no script for life.  I don’t think there is a God who is just reading the prewritten lines, and we are all acting accordingly. 

Every day, I have to make up my own story.  And if the next chapter has tragedy and sorrow, then I will do my best to turn it one page at a time.  For now, I have to focus on the beautiful part of the unknown future, and keep writing. 

The Big Questions

We all have heard that being a mom or dad is not an easy job.   When I was pregnant, well meaning friends and strangers would gently rest their arm on my shoulder and sigh, “Whew, parenting is tough.” 

But no one told me what this really meant.  I assumed they were talking about a couple of sleepless nights, messy diapers, and a few extra expenses.   Yes, all these hardships occurred, but someone should have told me about the Big Questions. 

The Big Questions are the ones that can't be solved with naps or diaper genies.  They are the ever present worries born from fear and guilt, such as, ‘What’s best for my children?  Should I stay at home or work full time?  How much television is too much?  Is it safe to hire babysitters from the internet?  Am I too lenient or too strict?  What if I’m not really enjoying this?  Did I really just lose my temper?   Most days I just struggle with the most basic, yet profound, Big Question: 'Am I a good or bad mom?'.  

Each time I ask myself this question, I have to believe I'm on the right side of the answer.  It's a daily leap of faith to claim I'm a good mom, even on my bad days.   

But I'm learning this may not even be a fair question.  Being good or bad is not easy to measure, nor static in the ever changing role of a parent.  I just try to do the best I can.  It starts with trusting that my love for my children, even when I may not like them, is enough.  It's about having confidence in my instincts to make the right choices, however difficult.  And it's most definitely laughing at those parenting moments so bizarre that I wonder if I'm just getting pranked, like this one:

I should just learn to be more like them.  They don't seem to be worried about good or bad or anything.  They are not asking questions of themselves (clearly!).  And they probably think I'm a pretty good mom. 

Children know more than we think.  Maybe they do have all the answers.

Scary, beautiful math

None of us know how long we will live.  I turned forty-two this year.  My mom died at age fifty-seven.  If I assume that I'll die of breast cancer just like her (which I believe out of irrational fear), then I only have about fifteen years left.   And that is some seriously scary, beautiful math. 

The beautiful part is the opportunity to ask myself this universal existential question, “What would I do differently if I knew I would die tomorrow, next year, or in fifteen years?”  I actually don’t know the answer.  At the stage of life I’m in, I don't want to do anything more.  Going skydiving and rocky mountain climbing like a Tim McGraw song just feels like more work.  Instead of a bucket list, I think I would spend the rest of my days saying thank you to the people that meant the most to me.  I would go around and tell them why, what, and how they changed me, and hopefully changing them.

The scary part is of course thinking about mortality.  But I do not fear death.  I witnessed the last breath of Mom's life, holding her hand as her soul departed from her physical body.  Neither of us at that moment feared death, we simply feared the unknown path of living without each other.  

I'm certain mom felt this way.  One of mom's co-workers wrote this memory of her on one of The Cards at her funeral:

“Joan and I were discussing one day what the after-life might be life. She said, 'Imagine a baby in a womb all warm and comfortable and fed.  It knows no other place and is perfectly content where it is.  Now someone tells that baby it has to leave its home and go through birth.  But the baby is frightened, doesn’t know what’s waiting for it in the next world, and doesn’t want to leave.  Once the baby comes out (not without struggle), born into new life, it sees it had nothing to be afraid of.'

I told Joan how wonderful that was and how I will always think of death in that way, not an ending, but a new beginning.  She replied, 'I hope it’s that way.'”  - D

I hope it's that way, too.  For you and for me.  Until then, I'll keep adding up happy days, subtracting bad ones, and multiplying my gratitude for the people in my life.  For this is the most beautiful, yet scary, math I can practice.  

The Turtle Brigade

One of the things that drives me crazy about my five year old daughter is that she’s really slow.  Not slow in mind, but slow in action.  She finds exceptionally clever ways to delay routine tasks like putting on shoes or getting in the car.  You’ll often find me standing at the front door frustrated and shouting, “You’re making us the Turtle Brigade again!” 

One of the deepest sources of my sadness is the inability to ask mom about her years of heavy parenting.  Since I can’t ask her, I usually turn to the stories about mom that other people wrote on index cards at her funeral for wisdom.   I recently flipped through The Cards and found this from a friend: 

“I have many memories from high school at her house waiting for Erica as she finished getting ready to go out.  I never minded – because these were the times I got to have ‘heart-to-hearts’ with Mrs. Neubert.  She always spoke to us as if we were adults and she was one of the kids at the same time.   When it was finally time to leave I always had the un-teenager thought, “I wish Erica’s mom were coming out with us.”   The funny thing is I can vividly remember these chats, but I couldn’t begin to tell you about any of the things we did afterwards.” – R.

Damn it.  Not only did I create the Turtle Brigade, I am the founding member.  Well played, fate. Well played, mom.   

So my lessons are clear:

1.  If you’ve ever waited for me, I’m sorry.  
2. My children are just holding up a mirror.  When I get frustrated with them, I’m really getting frustrated with myself.  
3. The spaces of waiting time are often disguised as the best parts of the conversation.

I just need to be patient.  In about ten years, I get to be that cool mom who almost gets asked to tag along with the teens. 

Stepping off the pink bandwagon

I think there are three types of people that buy this pink ribbon merchandise:

1. Those who have survived breast cancer.  To you I say, “Buy, buy, buy!  You go girl!“
2. Those who like pink things.  To you I say, “Pink is fantastic, but so is leopard print.”
3. Those who think the pink ribbon stuff will protect you.   To you I say, “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t work that way.”

I know this because I tried it.  I did the fundraising walks and the 5k runs, complete with t-shirts and balloon arches.  I owned a breast cancer cooking apron, a two-week supply of pink socks, and a pink ribbon collection large enough to qualify me for an episode of Real Hoarders. But all it got me was an apartment full of clutter and more things I had to let go of after my mom died. 

I had to let go of more than stuff, more than the things.  I had to let go of the idea that the universe was available to protect my family and me from harm.  I had to let go of the notion that my tangible and intangible acts of kindness meant I would have health and fortune bestowed upon me. I had to let go of the assumptions that I had special powers to heal and fix everything for my family.  And so later, I had to let go of the pink ribbon, too. 

I can’t ride the pink bandwagon anymore.  I just don’t think it’s going to take me to the places I need to be in my life without mom.  It’s fine if you buy this coffee, headband, or tape glider (!!): 

Everyone needs caffeine, a clear forehead, and something to wrap presents.   But if you know someone facing loss, there are better alternatives.  Listen to them over coffee, brush away stress, and always stick around.

The Tallest Man in the World?

At Mom’s funeral, we asked guests to write down their favorite memory of her.  These index cards are my favorite source of information about the different sides of mom I didn’t get to know.  To me, she was a brilliant mom.  But to others, she was a co-worker, manager, neighbor, friend, or aunt.  "The Cards" teach me a little about how to be a better human and a better parent.

Many of the stories people shared were not necessarily about what she did, but how she made them feel.   And they typically include stories I’d never heard before, such as this one:

““How could I ever forget going to see the Tallest Man in the World when I was all of about five years old. How unfortunate that he had broken his leg and couldn’t stand up. All we ever saw was the hat on his head. And yet, it’s still one of the most vivid memories of my childhood!” – S. ”

I have no idea what happened this day, other than a special outing between an aunt and her five year old nephew.  Going to see the tallest man in the world who couldn’t stand up sounds very suspicious.  I don’t know if they were at a cheap travelling circus or if she was making a trip to the hospital emergency room seem less scary. 

But this teaches me three things about parenting and personal connections:

1.     I want to lead a life where people write memorable stories about how special I made them feel. 

2.     You can make up fake superlatives about tall people if you are in need of a quick fun event.

3.     You never know when you are making a moment. 

Who's afraid of the big bad mammogram?

Since my mom died of breast cancer, I’m forced to take precautions for myself.   I’ve had the BRCA gene testing (all clear!), the dietary overhaul (more broccoli!), and the breast self exams (what fun!).   So far, so good. 

Except for my questionable breasts.  I’ve got dense tissue and suspicious calcifications, so I get screened more often than most.  If the mammogram facility had a frequent flier program, I’d be a platinum member. 

Each time I sit in the waiting room, holding tightly to my own anxieties, all I think about is mom.  How she was strong, brave, and practical.  She knew mammograms were in my future - and for many of my female friends.  In the year before she died, she emailed me this:

Many women are afraid of their first mammogram, and even if they have had them before, there is fear.  But there is no need to worry.  By taking a few minutes each day for a week preceding the exam and doing the following practice exercises, you will be totally prepared.   Best of all, you can do these simple practice exercises right in your home.

EXERCISE 1:  Open your refrigerator door, and insert one breast between the door and the main box.  Have one of your strongest friends slam the door shut as hard as possible and lean on the door for good measure.  Hold that position for five seconds.  Repeat in case the first time wasn’t effective.

EXERCISE 2:  Visit your garage at 3a.m. when the temperature of the cement floor is just perfect.  Take off all your clothes and lie comfortably on the floor sideways with one breast wedged under the rear tire of the car.  Ask a friend to slowly back the car up until your breast is sufficiently flattened and chilled.  Switch sides, and repeat for the other breast. 

EXERCISE 3:  Freeze two metal bookends overnight.  Strip to the waist.  Invite a stranger into the room.  Have the stranger press the bookends against either side of one of your breasts and smash the bookends together as hard as he/she can.  Set an appointment with the stranger to meet next year to do it again.

You are now properly prepared!

Love,

Mom

So go forth, ladies.  Book your appointment, freeze your bookends, and have no fear!