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.   

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!"

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.

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. 

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. 

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.  

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!