Membership in the Laundry Knob Society

About three weeks before my expected due date with my first child, I still did not have baby things ready.  No car seat installed.  No crib built.  No hospital bag packed.  Instead, I focused on what I felt was the most important endeavor for the health and well being of my baby-to-be.  I spent three hours  cleaning the built-up grime from the laundry knobs of our not-that-dirty washing machine (using 30+ Q-tips, of course!).

So a few days later when I went into early labor, I seriously panicked.  I doubted and questioned myself.  How could I be a good mom if I chose insignificant cleaning over building a crib for my child to sleep in? (Note: my darling husband and father-in-law raced home to fix this situation while the new baby and I rested in the hospital). 

I tell you this because on the surface, many people thought I had it together in those first weeks, months - even years.  But truthfully, I was full of self-doubts and guilt.  Early motherhood humbled and crushed me in ways I never expected.  Life with a newborn was not about cute nursery décor (didn’t have it) or clean laundry knobs (didn’t need it).  It was about sacrifice, fear, exhaustion, and wonder (holy crap).   I wanted my life to look like a parenting magazine ad, but it never did.

I felt massively lonely in my overwhelmed state.  What I wanted more than the time back to fix my mistakes was someone to just reach out, put their arm around my shoulders, and admit, “Yeah, me too.”  So I started 'The Laundry Knob Society' with some of my best friends when I was pregnant with my second child.  It was in this truth telling and secret sharing that I finally became a little less hard on myself (and just avoided the washing machine all together).

My friends and I continue to share all those awkward, challenging moments when life gets weird and unscripted.   And the simple act of honesty is the scariest and most rewarding part.  Whatever your challenge is - being a parent, moving to a new place, losing your job, or micro-biotic cleaning - I say, “Yeah, me too.  And welcome to the Laundry Knob Society.”

Why I hate October

I’m going to start by apologizing to anyone who is going to be offended. 

October is my least favorite month of the year.   It’s Breast Cancer Awareness month and the malls and magazines around this country are vomiting all over me with marketing material and pink ribbon merchandise.  The stench of money and greed makes my own stomach turn.   

My mother died of breast cancer nearly ten years ago, and this merchandise makes me angry – not for the loss I endured, but for the memories of the cure that money couldn’t buy.   It reminds me of those early October mornings in the hospital twin bed with my mother, facing a cancer that wouldn’t quit.  I’d look at the dying leaves outside the window and the pink flooded commercials on television and feel like I was being taunted both by nature and commerce. 

I’ve seen dozens of media ads that promise a portion of the proceeds goes to breast cancer foundations.  But there is usually an asterisk.  For one campaign I saw, the fine print capped their breast cancer research donation at $100,000.  To regular individuals like you and me, that sounds like a lot of money.  But in the medical research world, that’s pennies.  It's a rounding error.

I can hear the critics in my head and comment boxes shouting, Every dollar counts!  Even small donations add up!  Money for prevention and research is the best medicine!   The inner voices remind me that I am at risk for breast cancer and research money could be the difference between my life and death. 

Yes.  

But then I see this:  

I can't even begin to swallow a breast cancer DOUGHNUT.  

When mom was having her own chemotherapy, the better medicine was when we roamed the halls, sitting at the end of the hospital beds talking with other patients, other women, other moms. The biggest support happened when we opened up about our struggles and fears and cracked open our hearts just enough to let others do the same.

So what are we supposed to do?  Instead of buying all of this pink clutter, roam the halls of your life and listen from the heart.  Get a mammogram, and let me know when it’s November.  I will wear pink again, just not yet. 

(And of course, don’t be discouraged to donate directly to legitimate breast cancer research foundations). 

My "Time Hack" Experiment

So I’m on the phone with Brigid and Terry, and I’m admitting all of my dirty secrets.  Literally.  I’m telling them about how most days, I don’t wash my face, brush my teeth, or shower until the end of a busy day.  I am often still in my pajamas or in mismatched sweat pants all day. I’m not a lazy slob, I’m just completely overwhelmed as a mom of an active toddler and eighteen month baby - and working full time from home.  My personal hygiene is the least of my problems.  

That morning, I started my day on a very early conference call with my team in London (straight from my pajamas, of course).  As soon as it was over, I raced upstairs from my basement office to feed the kids and got them ready for daycare, complete with lunches, blankets, and labels.  As soon as they left the house with my husband, I joined my next conference call, and responded to work instant messages while on mute.  Afterward, I took a quick break to clean up from the breakfast mess, put away the bulk toilet paper, and throw salt on the icy patches of our front stoop.  It was a frantic rush, but that toilet paper wasn’t going to put itself away.  Later I zoned out on another conference call while reading the weekly bulletin from our daycare, scanning for things I need bring to their respective classrooms.  Then I tuned back into the call and made some passing comments on the topic.  I’m a master of what I call the work/life blitz. 

I explained all of this to Terry and Brigid, and get the reassuring chuckles that let me know I wasn't alone.

We talked about my goals, and what’s holding me back from achieving them.  My sole goal for 2015 is to finally finish and publish a book I’ve been working on for eight years. It’s a memoir about my mom and the dual life I tried to lead while she was dying.  The main reason I want to finish it is because I want my daughter to read it someday.  I want her to know about my mom, her ‘Grandma Joan.’  I want her to know me, in case I die too young of breast cancer myself.  I want to finish it because I don’t want to forget the little details about sleeping with my mom in the twin bed of the hospital and holding her hand as she passed away.  Oh, and I want the book to make me millions so I can retire and gain back the free time that has escaped me since the day my daughter was born.  You see, I kinda blame my lack of time on my kids.  I know it sounds like a cop out, but you can’t deny that two young kids take up a lot of time.  

Terry said she knew what I needed to do.  I was psyched for my magic bullet solution.  

I figured it was going to be about creating my new inbox management system, or a time saving parenting tip, or a daily writing goal.  Nope. 

Terry told me to take a shower.  Terry told me to eat my lunch at the table, without my iPhone.  Absurd!

Yes, it was true I needed to shower more regularly, and not eat lunch at my desk.  But that did NOT seem like the answer to my problems.  Taking a hour for such indulgences - during my supposed workday - seemed like a colossal waste of time and made me feel guilty just thinking about it.  I wondered if Terry was really as good as she said she was.  I wanted to recheck her credentials as a time management consultant.  I nervously laughed, waiting for her to give me some real advice.  But Terry was firm.  Take a shower and eat lunch. 

Luckily, I’m a rule follower, so after we hung up I headed upstairs.  Terry said I needed at least an hour break.  I showered so long I let my hands get pruney!  I shaved my legs!  I used facial scrub!  Then I got crazy.  I plucked my eyebrows!  I dried my hair WITH a hairbrush!  I put on makeup!  I put on a sweater and scarf that matched!  I put on pants that weren’t sweats!  I was suddenly into this slowing down thing.  I felt glorious, and a little hungry. 

Unfortunately, when I got to the kitchen, I noticed the time.  My indulgent beauty routine meant I only had ten minutes before having to leave to pick up my daughter to get a cavity filled at the dentist.  Damn.  I knew I shouldn’t have spent so much time on myself.  I knew I shouldn’t have taken Terry’s advice.  I knew how to fix it.  I tossed the soup in the microwave and enabled the two minute express setting (reminding myself of the line in Anne Marie Slaughter’s famous Why Women Still Can't Have It All article about the working mom who nuked things for 1:11, 2:22, or 3:33 minutes since it was faster to press repetitive buttons).  I grabbed my phone to set google maps to the the fastest route from the daycare to the dentist.  I slurped the soup fast and burned my tongue since two minutes was too long for the soup.  I jumped in the car, and  frantically pulled for the washer fluid to get rid of the ice on my windshield, but made things worse.  I was late and exasperated.  As I squinted under the windshield mess and turned right out of our townhouse complex, I was angry and swore out loud, “I don’t have time for this.” 

I claimed I didn’t need to slow down.  But maybe I was so busy with trying to get it all done that I was getting nothing done.  I claimed I wasn’t a perfectionist, but maybe I was the worst kind.  Maybe I was the perfectionist who was in full denial about being one.  But at this exact moment, I was in danger of crashing my car and hurting myself or others.  I slowly pulled off of the road, put on my hazard lights, fixed my windshield, and realized Terry was very, very right.  

And ironically, we made it to the dental office on time.  

During her cavity filling procedure, the dentist let my daughter watch Cinderella.  It was the first time she had seen the movie, and she had a lot of questions about it as we drove home afterward.

“Mom, when am I going to have a fairy godmother?” she asked. 

“You already have one, sweetheart,” I said into the rear view mirror.  “It’s Grandma Joan.”

 “Who’s that?” she asked.  

 It always pains me when she doesn’t know who my mom is.    “Remember, I told you that Grandma Joan is my mom who lives with God in heaven.”

 “Oh right,” she said, then stared out the window. 

And I thought if I listen to Terry and Brigid’s advice, then maybe, just maybe, she’ll get to read about her someday.   I just had to be patient.  And maybe take more showers.  

Surfboards and pancakes

The first blog is dedicated to my Storyline people.  You know who you are. 

Like Shauna Niequist bravely shared with us, I've drifted several degrees off the course of who I really am and want to be.  I, too, used to "throw the candy" with reckless abandon, but lost that joy somewhere.  I have been stressed out by get togethers with my good friends, I've been obsessed with my Quicken budgeting, and nearly threw a fit when my daughter cleaned our glass top dining room table with Formula 409, as opposed to the more appropriate cleaning product known as Windex.  I’m that far off course.  

As much as I deeply and feverishly want my life story to be changed and redrafted immediately, it will surely be a gradual transformation that will only be perfected with practice, like making really great pancakes.  The batter of my life will start out lumpy and messy and full of bubbles I need to pop, but will turn into something delectable and satisfying if I have enough patience and courage to flip it.  

How do I know I will make some changes?  Well, over the two day conference, I found myself regretting that I put on mascara about nineteen times. My bones tingled with inspiration so often I thought I was having a mild seizure.  There were moments that everyone in the auditorium seemed to disappear and I swore the person on stage was speaking directly to ME.  I think that tells me that there's a big wave coming, and now is the time to jump on the surfboard, close my eyes, and ride. 

How do I really know I’ll follow through?  I can’t ignore the near divine intervention that occurred when strangers appeared before me at just the right moment.  When I was lost and aimlessly wandering the Willow Creek parking lot, a family offered me a ride and then allowed me to join them for dinner where I swear that God was disguised as the sushi chef and smiling at the fellowship he was creating.  When I wondered if my story was worth it, the woman sitting next to me assured me it was as she shared her similar pain and sorrow.  When I doubted my ability to juggle it all with my two young kids at home, I met a entrepreneurial mom with three young kids at home, reminding me that I could do this, as Anne Lamott says, bird by bird - or diaper by diaper.  

I've had excuses why I haven't written in a while or started that blog that begin with things like the two toddlers, the full time job, the laundry piles, the blah blah blah.  As Donald Miller said, 'my excuses are not really interesting.'  He's right.  Although I did have one interesting excuse - I couldn’t decide on URL name for my blog website - because my first and last name with a “.com” at the end is already taken by a porn star.  I kid you not.  And please don't try this at home.  You're going to have to trust me or face an awkward conversation with your spouse or significant other. I guess I'm stuck with this blog site until I get off my butt, write more, and earn more unique hits than than a porn star.  I'm sure Donald Miller had better visions for my life ambitions, but I have to start somewhere.  

So I'll quit things on Thursdays, I'll throw the candy, I'll stop making excuses, I'll do the next right thing, I'll be vulnerable and take just one more step over the line.  I'll write daily, and forgive myself on days I don't.   Like Glennon, I’ll pat my insecurities on the head each morning and give them big hugs as I send them out to the playground while I write in peace.  And I'll start this damn blog.   I can't miss catching the big wave.  

So here it is Storyline people.  My written thank you that starts with an open, extended hand.   Let me hoist you out of the water up onto the surfboard of this change process.  What wave do you want to catch?