Category Archives: Kids

A Lingering Vegas Hangover

I went to Vegas with some girlfriends last weekend. The three of us are stay-at-home-moms and each week we meet behind the plexiglass of our 3-year-old daughters’ gymnastics class. A couple of months ago, we decided a Moms Only trip to Vegas was in order. It’s been three years since I spent more than 24 hours away from my children, so I was more than game.

We danced, we drank, we stayed out late and laid by the pool. We ate when, and what we wanted. We got foot massages and I laughed so hard my abdominals still hurt three days later. We put on pretty clothes and spent at least an hour getting ready. I wore heels and Spanx and glittery eye-liner. We went to loud clubs where the music pounded in my chest and it felt good.

Moms in Vegas

We had so much fun that we had TOO much fun. When Monday rolled around and it was time to go home, reality came spinning at me faster than the sevens on those money-sucking slot machines. Ding!

Over those three days I remembered what it was like to take care of only one person… myself. I remembered how electric the nightlife can feel pulsing through my body. I remembered what it was like to sleep until I woke up on my own. I remembered what not having to be anywhere felt like. I remembered the freedom of having choices.

Compared to the rote and often mindless cleaning, cooking, scolding, bickering and cartoon Disney movies of my present-day life, it was like being transported to the Technicolor world of Oz complete with shiny heels, short dresses and good music. I truly hadn’t realized how drastically my life had morphed in ten years until I was suddenly standing in the middle of my 20′s again.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not looking to be single. I’m not even looking for the ability to binge drink and stay up until 3am. Been there, loved it, over it. What I realized is that freedom and choices are in drastic short supply in my life and I had no idea how much I missed them until I had them back for three, short days in Vegas.

When I became a mother almost four years ago, my obligations burst from the asphalt like a flashy hotel on expensive Las Vegas Strip real estate. Subtract a career, add another child and my choices shrank to the size of a perpetually full laundry basket. It took awhile for the shock of my tethered life to sink in, but what other choice is there when you have children? You just do it. All of it. Over the course of four years, this life became quite natural and I hardly remembered anything else. At some point I found it pointless to think about all the things I CANNOT do because that’s just masochistic. But what I hadn’t realized is that because of this lack of freedom and choices, somewhere inside me there was building a low-grade hum of discontent like the buzz of neon lights.

I came home in a funk. My husband was expecting a different result. He thought I’d be rejuvenated–happy! with my three-day vacation. But I wasn’t. I almost wished I hadn’t gone. I wished I hadn’t tasted the freedom because now I’m in withdrawal, and if I learned anything from my 20′s it’s that no matter how good the high… the crash is always worse.

It’s taken me three days to get my head out of the fog and it is only with distance, perspective and a practiced (if not forced) gratitude, that I can remember the point of going to Oz… to find the way back home.

Brooke & Brady Glam

And I brought some glam and shiny shoes back with me.

The Truth About Constipation and Life

This is about the awful, no-good, terrible night I tried to tell my three-year-old daughter the truth about constipation and life.

It was an impromptu playdate after gymnastics. The kind borne out of three stay-at-home Moms who were facing down the prospect of a typical Monday afternoon of chores like cleaning, laundry and lunch making. It was bathroom cleaning day at my house and sitting around watching my kids play while having a little adult conversation sounded much better than scrubbing toilets. So I quickly eschewed my responsibilities and got on the SUV train toward the mall. There are certain expectations for impromptu playdates and one of them is that it’s completely reasonable to feed your child whatever is immediately available. In this case, it was McDonald’s, Annie’s Pretzel’s and/or Frozen Yogurt because if “yogurt” is in the title, it’s totally acceptable whenever.

We went to Annie’s pretzels. Extra side of unrefrigerated, electric-orange cheese please! When we got home, the tummy rumbles began.

My daughter’s preschool teacher who sees her two days a week for three hours knows her elimination schedule. Her punctuality in the potty department often seems like a miracle to me considering her diet consists of 95% dairy products, but alas, this week was different. After a few days of mild complaints about tummy aches and the lack of productivity, I could sense that today was going to be the day we’d both feel better.

Soon after we got home, I turned my attention toward the procrastinated chores, and turned up the repetitive Momtra every time she said her tummy hurt. “Honey, you need to drink more water, here,” I said while handing her a sippy cup of said water and holding a scrub brush. Without fail, each time I handed her the cup she took the teensiest sip possible and put it aside. The complaints picked up in frequency and urgency. Fed up because, let’s face it, these toilets weren’t scrubbing themselves, I decided to give her some chocolate milk. I knew she’d drink that down in two gulps and I really wanted the Great Poop Drama of 2013 to be over.

Now, I know that dairy is not good for constipation, but so is a bone-dry digestive system. I reasoned that the injection of liquid would outweigh any effects of calcium… and sugar is a diuretic right? Oh how I would come to regret that decision. Fast forward to those magical hours just before bedtime.

“But Mom, every time I push it hurts!”  I explained to her that she had to push through the pain and when she finally poops, it would feel all better. She replied through tears, “Don’t say that Mommy!” Now I’m sitting on the newly cleaned bathroom floor for the 32nd time she has said she has to poop, and for the 32nd time, nothing is happening. Bedtime has come and gone. I’m hand-feeding her grapes, apples and sips of water coaxing her to push harder while she cries in between lower abdominal cramps.

“What honey? I’m just telling you the truth. It’s going to hurt for a second and then it will be over.” Not only advice on constipation, I thought, but on life itself because I never like to miss a “teaching moment.” I consider my most important job to be the bestowing of truth and wisdom onto my three-year-old, particularly in moments of high stress. I’m thoughtful like that.

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Through sobs she says, “Tell me a nicer truth, Mommy!”

I was just about to tell her how many times I’ve cried wanting the very same thing from life, but in the end, after years of experience and hard-earned wisdom under the elastic waistband of these yoga pants, I could share with her the cold, hard truth. The harshest truth. That sometimes life gets constipated and you have to push through the pain until you come out the other side. Only when you’ve done the hard work and endured the pain, will things get better. I wasn’t going to lie to protect her from this simple fact. It was going to hurt for a second, then it would be over.

Two hours, 45 false alarms, 17 grapes, 1/2 an apple, countless sips of water and one warm bath later… she taught me something, too. That just when you think you’ve pushed through the hardest, most painful part… there’s another pile of crap waiting for you and will usually be the result of doing what you want to do, instead of what you need to do.

Imagine, if you will, or don’t because it’s quite grose, the aftermath of a cork finally coming loose on a shaken bottle of champagne and you will have experienced a fraction of what I witnessed with a front row seat. As I sat there with a horrified grimace, all I could think about was the painful irony of the situation. Because of my decision to procrastinate toilet cleaning and because I just didn’t want to make yet ANOTHER peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I fed her unrefrigerated, electric-orange cheese that was now spraying all over the toilet I just cleaned hours before when we finally got home from our playdate all while shewing her away with chocolate milk.

Maybe tomorrow we’ll discuss the importance of hard work and responsibility? Because I’m thoughtful like that.

Parenting. It’s not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach and there is no nicer truth than that. Then again, perhaps we should all relax… and just let it go.

How Do You Choose to Leave Your Children?

209I met him on our last day in Nicaragua in a coffee shop. As I chased down my 17-month-old I heard him say he was the owner of something having to do with yoga. It inspired me to strike up a conversation and when I did, I got a lot more than I imagined. It was a loud and crowded place. He patted the seat next to him for me to join them. He was an endearing man; open and honest right from the jump. Within 30 minutes of meeting him he told me that his wife had left. She’d gone back to the states to pursue a degree in nursing. He said she “hadn’t done anything for herself” and that motherhood hadn’t turned out to be “fulfilling” so she left to “get an education.” She was the yoga instructor at his yoga retreat that is now “restructuring.”

He had a two-year-old girl sitting on his lap with a white-blond, tangled mess of spiral curls. A seven-year-old, brown-eyed boy across the table and a barely dressed five-year-old with the same hair as her sister sitting to his right. Each of them had that perfect, enviable, golden tanned skin with glints of blond hair shining on top. By the end of the conversation he offered us a ride home in his extended cab pickup truck. We all squashed in; him, me, his three kids, my two and my husband. You can get away with things like that in Nicaragua because seat belts are optional as are car seats.

Speaking of seat belts, I had a major revelation regarding them during our 14 day stay in Nicaragua. Did you know that they are not actually for safety? Sure, they provide some sense of security, but the biggest argument for the mandate of seat belts is to keep children who possess endless energy and a lack of social boundaries, contained to a manageable state while operating motor vehicles. If I could bottle up the euphoria I feel the moment both of my children are securely fastened into their five-point harnesses, I would get an hour of QVC primetime and be an instant bizzillionaire.

As a result of this lack in restraint, the 15 minute drive to our place was absolute chaos. The seven-year-old was sitting in between the two front seats which happened to be exactly where the two-year-old wanted to be. She wailed the entire time in unintelligible shrieks as the seven-year-old purposefully blocked her every attempt to see out the window. The father, distracted by driving on roads with no traffic signs and no official traffic rules while having a conversation with my husband amidst five unconfined tornadoes, could not discern the true nature of this deafening conflict. In the relatively short (and by that I mean excrutiatingly endless) drive from the coffee shop to our condo, this endearing, honest father congratulated his son for sitting quietly no less than three times and told the two-year-old that he couldn’t “hear her” because she was screaming. He then launched some loosely veiled threat regarding the loss of “points.”

At one point in the drive the seven-year-old boy looked back at me and I said, “You know what you’re doing. Will you please let your sister see out the window?” He glared and said with a heavy speech impediment, “I don’t whisten to you. I whisten to my Mom and my Dad onwey.”

I tried not to judge. I try very hard to be Ms. Nonjudgy McNojudgerson which is exactly why we agreed to have a “playdate” later that day at their pool.

Little Girl In NicaraguaOn the ride to their place the seven-year-old and the five-year-old sat in the back of the truck because, well, it’s a Third World country and no one bats an eye at such things. This provided a lot more sanity for the people in the cab except for me who kept looking behind my shoulder to make sure they were holding on every time we approached a bump, which, let’s face it, was pretty much the whole time. First, we went into town for ice cream. There were lots of unabashed screaming over how much and how soon everyone would get their ice cream. Essentially, more chaos coupled with mass stickiness and tears. Then we got back in the truck and went to their pool another 15 minutes away which was more chaos combined with the potentiality for drowning.

The moment we got to the pool I asked the seven-year-old where I could find a restroom. He led me to it, then stood in the doorway and snickered at me because I didn’t notice the urinals. He laughed saying, “Ha! Ha! I twicked you!” Over the course of the next hour the kids continued to fight over toys, flotation devices, rules and their father’s attention.

We went back up their house and the two oldest immediately got into a physical fight while I was the only adult in the room. The five-year-old wanted the seven-year-old to leave her bedroom. He wouldn’t leave and she kept yelling at him to do so. It was then that I noticed she had the same speech impediment as her brother. He grabbed her face and began squeezing her head with every ounce of his small, impotent fury. My three-year-old was next to me and I quickly stepped in breaking them up while yelling at them both to stop. When the father rushed in, the seven-year-old flat-out lied about what happened and I excused myself from the room not wanting to further over-step my bounds as a guest.  I heard him take away all their points.

Soon thereafter he banished them to their preferred electronic devices, the boy to the computer, the girl to the television. During the few moments of relative peace that followed, I noticed how hard he was trying. There was a sign above the kitchen table that read:

Rules: 1) We say please and thank you. 2) We talk in normal voices; no shouting. 3) We ask before getting food.

On a dry erase board in the hallway there were the rules to the “point system.” Each child started the day with three points. They needed all three points to be able to watch television or play on the computer.

Again, I tried with every ounce not to judge this situation or act as though I wanted to run out the door as soon as possible. I didn’t want to run because it was chaos. I have two rambunctious toddlers, a pair of geriatric cats, I work a part-time job while going back to school AND I’m in therapy. Chaos is nothing new here. But this chaos felt different. It was sad, angry, desperate chaos. There were huge disproportionate reactions toward minor infractions behind every unstructured, uncontained corner.

I kept looking for a picture of their mother but couldn’t find one. I was left to imagine her face by squinting at her children. I kept thinking about the father’s words about why she left. I certainly understand the need to fulfill your life’s goals. I certainly understand that motherhood is simultaneously much more, and less, than one could ever imagined it would be. I can certainly understand the day-to-day exhaustion and monotony of raising young children, but I also understand that the indescribably bond supersedes all those things. At least for me it does.

Either way, my heart broke for that father. He wanted so badly to do right by his kids and you could see how very much he loved them, but he was clearly in over his head. Heck, Mary Poppins would have been in over her head. My heart broke for those kids. They seemed to be lacking something essential, whether it be their mother or not, and the fact that they were so, so young. I know I’m probably projecting my own sense of “normal” onto this situation, and maybe this is why I can’t stop thinking about it? I feel compelled to understand the most foreign of human places which is partly why we were in Nicaragua.

Life has taught me to proceed with caution when tempted to condemn another person’s circumstances. When I do, I am usually smacked upside the head with how horribly imperfect and flawed I am and mercilessly reminded that I have no right to such condemnations. But each time I look at my children and imagine making the same choice, I can’t help but feel a tad bit judgmental of this mother who I cannot see even when I squint. I know when I feel this way, life is pushing me to reach further for the compassion. I realize that everyone has their reasons for making their life’s choices, and I also know that I only know a fraction of one side of this story. But I keep silently wondering: what was the final straw? What was it in her character or circumstance that made her make this impossible decision? And were the children like that because their mother left, or did the mother leave because her children were like that? Does that even matter?

It seems that no matter how much I try, I can’t understand how someone walks away from them by choice… regardless of how you feel or what you want?

Do you know the other half of this story?

The Beauty of Surrender

Today, I went to a second yoga session on my trip to Nicaragua. It will likely be my last here as we leave for home in a couple of days. It has been an illuminating, exciting and utterly exhausting trip. Caring for two toddlers is a lot of work in perfect conditions with all the tools in place like diaper pales, level sidewalks and regulatory high chairs with seat belts. All things for which I have a new appreciation. Doing all of the same day-to-day tasks here in the remote Third World without these luxuries has been a challenge for sure. A challenge that has stretched my coping abilities to their max.

I’ve yelled at my children more than I would like. I’ve been short with my husband for no reason. I have been too tired to enjoy some of the fun things because there’s just so much damn work to be done everyday. I’m not proud of it, but even on vacation surrounded by immense beauty I can be pissed off.

I needed yoga today to bring me back to myself. To remind me of the important things.

The wind was whipping my hair in the open-air studio. My dingy, borrowed mat flipped up on the edges from time to time. The pigeons congregated and cooed somewhere above me while the sounds of small-town Nicaragua swirled around me in cries, hollers, motors and horns. Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” was part of the soundtrack to the practice and somewhere around “…with every breath we drew a hallelujah” I let it all go and I sank into the beautiful space of surrender.

Surrender is beautiful, isn’t it? When we fall on our knees and crumple from the strain of life? When we’re brave enough to admit that we don’t have it all together, that we struggle, that we need help, that even on vacation in paradise we can get pissed off? When we stretch out our arms or join our hands in prayer asking, often begging for love, for peace, for a moment of grace in a hectic world–it is nothing short of a beauty-filled miracle. It’s something that doesn’t come naturally to a controlling, anxiety-ridden, yeller… like me.

But it came. It came with the strength of a thousand wind storms.

I was in the zone, or in yoga speak, ”on my edge” in every pose. My leg went up in wheel. I held crow. I got closer to a head stand than ever before and I stretched farther and deeper than usual… I chatuaronga’d the shit out of that mat. The hour and a half felt like mere moments in time. I was in my breath. I was humbled yet confident; filled with a strong weakness that transformed me from one inhalation to the next. I have been in many yoga classes in the last 10 years but this one will stay with me forever. It shifted me–left an indelible impression on my soul.

The teacher said, “Every breath brings an opportunity for change.” Like a gong this struck a chord deep inside. She is right. With every breath, I can change. With every minute, I can be better– I can come back to myself and all I have to do is surrender… “with every breath a hallelujah.”

Let Go And Trust the Direction of the Wind

There are so many lessons to be learned when traveling to foreign countries, in particular, developing countries. I wrote last week about traveling for the first time as the mother of (and with) young children to Nicaragua. I am still here in Nicaragua as I type this and there is still profound perspective around every unbaby-proofed corner.

Nicaraguan Baby

The second lesson that is hitting me hard is this: Let go and go with the wind.

The wind here blows in all directions, sometimes all at once. We were evicted from the place we planned to stay for the duration of our trip partly because of a veracious wind storm that ripped out a couple of window screens. The main reason we were evicted, was because the owner didn’t understand (nor could he tolerate) children. Although for months he led us to believe otherwise. After my daughter wet the bed (which we’d later discover was because of a UTI) along with other realitively minor infractions considering the environment, like not shutting the windows properly to prevent his curtains from be whipped by the wind, he let us know that we were no longer welcome on the 4th day of our 14-day trip. We were understandably upset by this development as my husband spent months planning our trip and corresponding with the owner to insure the safety and proper environment for our young family. Without notice, at 7am one morning, we were suddenly without lodging in a third world country with two small children and lots of luggage.

We railed against the situation and the owner. We vented and called him names and I wrote a review for his place of business and then edited it a dozen times. We were mad for being blind-sided. We were mad because our much-anticipated vacation wasn’t turning out as we’d hoped.

Luckily, there was space available at an excellent resort community that had great amenities including air-conditioning. We didn’t choose this location from the start because on the top of our checklist of accommodations, we wanted a stunning view, immediate beach access and someone to cook most (if not all) of meals. Although this place has a great view, it did not offer the other two things. This ordeal stole an entire day of our vacation by having to relocate and spend time shopping for food and necessities. Not a fun day with two cranky, sweaty, napless toddlers.  To add to the situation, the Nicaraguan woman we hired to help with our children during days up and quit in the middle of our shopping trip because she had problems at home. At some point later this day, I said to my husband in a moment of frustration: “I’m not having fun anymore!”

It was true. I was exhausted. Things weren’t looking good in the near-term future. All I wanted to do was rest and take a break from all the work and worry. In spite this, I picked up my frustrated, disappointed, tired-ass and took my kids to the pool.

Within 10 minutes of being there, I met the owner of the only yoga studio in the small town of San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua. Within 20 minutes of meeting her, our vacation would turn around significantly. The next morning, I went to my first yoga practice in two weeks at her studio. While there, on my mat, I would hear this lesson with crushing clarity: Let go and trust the wind.

I have said before that yoga is my church. It is where I check-in with myself. It is where I become the best version of me, and it is where I hear God speak, most clearly. As I sat there on my mat waiting to begin, I started to focus on my breath and become present. It was an open-air studio on the second floor and the breeze blew lightly through.

Yoga NicaraguaI lifted my gaze to watch a butterfly struggling against a sheer, black screen. It struggled, fluttering it’s yellow and black wings over and over again into a barrier it could not see. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew it around the screen into the exact direction it wanted to go. In that instant, I knew what I came to Nicaragua to learn more profoundly.

When life isn’t working out the way you planned; when you get kicked out your accommodations (in part because of a wind storm) and then find yourself on the streets of a third world country with two cranky toddlers, four bags of luggage and nowhere to go; trust, and follow the wind. Stop struggling against the Universe, stop arguing with reality, stop putting energy where there are no solutions or peace or love; stop fighting the obstacles in your path. Go with wind and trust that God will be there waiting to lift you around the screens you cannot see, toward the place where the Yoga teacher is waiting; to a better, brighter space where you can fly where you want to go without struggle.

From that moment on, our vacation got better and better. Since we were not beholden to this snake-oil salesman and his place, we were free to move about, wherever.  Because of this, we are now settled into a beautiful place on the most pristine white sand beach in Nicaragua called Coco which is just 45 minutes outside of San Juan Del Sur . Last night, we watched the most dramatic, stunning, outrageous sunset of our lives. Afterward, my little family of four walked on a the soft sand beach laughing, watching tiny crabs scurry about while the horizon over the ocean blazed on in fiery red-orange. My 3-year-old threw her arms out wide and exclaimed, “Everything is so beautiful!”

She was so right. It was beyond beautiful. I wanted to capture it with my new camera but no digital photograph would contain what we were feeling, seeing and experiencing as a family. We were alone, on a remote corner of the world looking into the dying light of day, gazing up at a crisp sliver of a moon and a sky beginning to dust itself with bright, glittering stars. It is a moment my husband and I will never forget and would never have had, had we held on to our disappointments and let that be our guide instead of being, “…Like a feather on the breath of God.’

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Coco Beach Nicaragua

Playa El Coco, Nicaragua, January 2013

Kids in Nicaragua and Mother Eyes

When my husband first said let’s take the kids to Nicaragua, I worried. I saw pictures of the place he wanted to stay and the first thing I worried about was the pool. Next, were all the unbaby-proofed pitfalls waiting around every jagged corner. The worries continued. How well will they travel for that many hours? What about car seats? The kids are so picky; what are they going to eat? Are they going to be able to adapt to the heat, and oh my, what about sunburns, dysentary, bug bites and where is the nearest hospital? On and on it went. Everytime we told someone we were taking the kids to Nicaragua they wanted to know– is it safe?

I’ve been to third-world countries before but this is my first time as a mother of two small children. It might as well be my first time ever because I see the world anew with Mother Eyes.

We brought two car seats; one for my 17-month-old son, and a booster for my 3-year-old-daughter. I worried that the booster wouldn’t be safe enough because she’s 3lbs shy of the weight limit, but we decided it would be best for packing reasons. Speaking of packing, we brought two large suitcases, a large duffle bag to hold the pack-n-play, two back packs and a rolling carry-on. We would be gone for 14 days and we reasoned that we needed all this stuff for our family of four. We brought snacks, toys, electronics, three kinds of diapers (day, night, swim) and clothes upon clothes upon clothes. Between my daughter and I, we have 10 swimsuits.

The drive from the airport in Managua, to the place we’re staying, San Juan del Sur, took 2.5 hours. It was in a “fancy” car which was a early model jeep of some kind with “air conditioning” which was slightly cooler than the muggy 85 degrees outside. The regular seatbelts were rusted and you can forget about those safety latches in the seat crack for attaching car seats. I don’t even think they know those exist. I was sure we were going to get into a head-on collision multiple times on the long drive down a narrow two-lane road. We passed horse-drawn carts, tractors, busses with people hanging out the sides (including children) and tons of rusted out (but functioning) motorcycles and bicycles loaded down with two or three people, including babies.

Nissan truck nicaragua

I’m not sure I saw a single helmet. It makes me feel a little silly worrying about the 3lbs my daughter lacked to be “regulation” for her booster seat because this is how toddlers travel in Nicaragua.

Toddler Nicaragua

With these new Mother Eyes, I can’t stop seeing all the Nicaraguan children and their mothers.

little girl & mom nicaraguaI went to the unairconditioned grocery store were I watched two mothers chat in the narrow aisles. When I passed them with my loud and whiney kids in the wobbly cart, they got quiet and parted letting me pass between them. They smiled and stared a little as I walked by. I couldn’t seem to hold their gaze. I felt shy, spoiled, foreign in every way and I can’t even imagine what they were thinking of my excessive persperation, new blonde highlights and coral painted toenails.

As we walked up and down the balmy aisles of the grocery store we looked for things our kids might eat. As a rule we try to limit their sugar, not only because it’s not good for them, but because my son has an intolerance when he has too much. There wasn’t much we could find. We bought some basic corn flakes, crackers and condensed milk in unrefrigerated cartons, because everything from the orange juice to the jams and cereals were loaded with tons and tons of added sugar and hydrogenated oils. Those things are cheap and work well to preserve and sweeten foods that aren’t that good for you and made to sit on unairconditioned shelves. They do have plenty of tropical fruit here; pinneaple, bananas, watermellons; but vegetables are hard to find and more expensive. Whole wheat bread is non-existent.

toddler boy and mom nicaragua

The woman that comes to the house from 7am-3pm to clean and cook breakfast for us has four children of her own. When we sit down to eat she holds my son and entertains my daughter. She doesn’t speak English but we try to communicate. My husband types into Google translation: “Thank you for helping with our children. We tip well.” Gracias por su atención a nuestros hijos. Nos propina. She smiles and laughs. Before she cleans our rooms I look around at all our stuff and I am embarrassed. I can’t find anything because we brought so much and it’s now strewn from one corner to the next. On top of it all, my daughter only wants to wear the pink swimsuit with the skirt, and my son has slept in the pack-n-play twice because he prefers to sleep next to me. I can’t help but wonder what she thinks of it all while she cleans. Of us. Of me.

I am humbled here. I feel silly for worrying so much about my children and their picky appetites while the children here clearly have so much less. There is perspective around every unbaby-proofed corner. It breaks my heart but I am equally grateful. I’m grateful to see these things; to understand so profoundly exactly what I have in my life.

Because when I look around I don’t just see all that’s different or lacking. I see what is also the same. That these mothers work, shop, cook and clean for their children because they love them as much as I do, mine. They may not have a LeapPad2, non-toxic crayons made in Europe or even car seats, but there is no difference in how we feel or what they would do for their kids. We all want the best for them. We will all worry about them no matter what and we will do our best to provide what we can. Nic- me & kids on hammock

The irony in all this is; the kids are oblivious to our angst. Everywhere, in any language, country and climate, all kids want is to wear is the pink swimsuit, sleep by Mommy, and instead of playing with fancy electronics, throw the scrabble letters around because of the cool sound they make on the tile floors.

Nic- BB morning deck bananagrams

It’s the kids that know how to live this life. It’s the kids everywhere that should teach us how to live. They don’t feel shy or embarrassed or silly around anyone and they don’t need Google to translate anything.

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What the Heart Knows

Life gets so messy. The older we get, the messier it seems. In 34 years my heart has been crushed, lifted, divided, lost, shattered and redeemed many times over. My heart; it is a weathered and worn thing that knows so much more than I.

I heard a saying once that having children is like forever letting your heart walk around outside of your body. That sums it up as best as anything I know.  I remember feeling this exact thing shortly after my daughter was born. It was both wonderful and terrifying in equal measures. I finally felt love in its most pure form, and I also knew I had no control over it whatsoever. What a dichotomous thing this parent/child relationship can be.

Both of my children have been difficult sleepers. Both were colic and both still resist sleeping as if it were the worst thing to ever happen to them. Who knows? Maybe in their world, it is? I have spent hundreds of nights holding them in pitch-black rooms humming, bouncing, shifting from foot to foot, willing them to sleep with my mind. Most nights I have taken this for granted: lost in thought of what still needs to be done that day.

But last night, as I held my 15 month old son’s limp body in my arms in his pitch-black room, I remembered the one thing that never fails to bring me into presence with him. He is likely my last baby.

As I stopped my mind from thinking about the laundry that must be folded and the dishes in the sink, I came–my heart came to be inside that room with him. There was no light and the only sound was the humming of a fan. I had no thoughts to distract me from that moment; it was just me, holding him–his heart wrapped in mine-all inside my arms. It was as complete a feeling as I can imagine.

He is not even two. His life is not messy. His heart is not fractured in the slightest way and he does not worry about all the toys he has yet to play with the next day. He is as whole and pure as each of us are when we come into this world. He and his sister, they are present with me always. Their needs are many, but they are basic and easily fulfilled. They do not fret about tomorrow or yesterday and this child’s perspective is a gift I get everyday.

While holding him I felt a quick pang of sadness that he will be my last. That my days of holding his whole heart in my arms are numbered. That there will be a day when I look at him and I know his thoughts and his whole heart are not in the room with me, but divided.

Knowing that these are things I cannot control, I tried to focus on something bigger than worry… this moment, and my gratitude for it. Grateful that I am able to hold all of him, his whole heart and mine inside my arms, inside one dark room, if only for a few minutes each night as he drifts off to sleep.

Holding your sleeping child in your arms is a powerful thing. I obviously don’t know this… but my heart does. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

A Life in Motion

I spend a lot of my day in motion–cleaning, cooking, carting–basically, careening from one moment to the next. It’s a perpetual cycle of ups and downs, back and forths, over here, to over there, go, go, gone. On the surface, there isn’t much to show for all this movement except mud-tracked floors, upturned shoes in a heap, and crumbs from everything you could possibly imagine–good Lord the crumbs! For all the work I do you’d think things would be cleaner.

I’m finding a lot of contradiction in my life right now and this reality is leaving me frustrated. For instance, I spend a lot of mental energy wishing for more time alone, but if offered, there’s no where else I’d rather be. I spend a fair amount of time covered in food, sweat and children, wanting it all to be a little easier and maybe a little slower, but at the same time, infinitely grateful that my children need me so much; hoping that I’ll always remember their weight resting on my chest or the smell of their sticky breath in my face. I frequently lament the never-ending dirt, but there is something so sweet about washing tiny, impossibly flexible hands that makes my heart sigh.

These busy years of my life with two toddlers, my only choice is to move. I swing from one side of my day to the other, from busyness to boredom; burdens to beauty. I feel like I’m riding a pendulum, never still, in perpetual back and forth. The higher and harder something rotates to one side of my life; my angst, my fear, my doubt–the faster, easier and higher it rotates back to the opposite of it– my faith, my bliss, my calm.

One thing is always certain, I have never been more exhausted.

Laundry, wiping sticky counter tops, preparing pb&j sandwiches for the frillionth time, these things make up the bulk of what I do in this stage of life and yet they have nothing to do with the reasons I became a mother. I have come to realize that this is an unfair, frustrating reality. That these monotonous things are the motions I must go through to find the ultimate purpose at the core–the active toddler in just the right mood to cuddle, the perpetually dirty, easily edible, baby fingers–or my favorite–experiencing a whole new world through their eyes.

This menial, often overwhelming tedium that I must endure is what allows me to swing back to the other side of this life– the glorious, random moments. There simply is no amount of money or fame that could pull me away from this life because the more hands I wash, the less likely I am to forget how they feel inside mine and I know enough about life that one day will pray for that simple, priceless memory.

There is so much work that goes into each day, and yet on the other side of the pendulum, there is so much joy smashed right up along side it. But I also know that it takes a conscious effort to realize that joy.

It’s easy to believe that the tasks, the labor, the work is where we spend most of  our time and energy because it’s the hardest part and easiest to explain. It’s simple to complain about the endless paperwork, the commute, the mess, incessant whining and tantrums that come with more ferocity than ever. These things are universally understood and will illicit loads of sympathies and commiseration.

What’s harder is making a conscious effort to notice and express the other things.

There is no simplistic way to explain how the telepathic connection with your 3-year-old works… or feels. It’s impossible to quantify the invisible bonds that tether you to your children with just one look. Bonds built through familiarity, dependability, proximity and all the many repetitive acts that go into each day. People might think you weird should you stop to wax poetically about the way your one-year-old studied a rolly-polly bug this afternoon. Those are the subtleties. The subtleties that are often forgotten as you swing through your day from one chore to the next. I have a feeling that it’s these subtleties that will come barreling at me when I send them off to college. And although they often allude me, it’s why I must strive harder to take note of them– to attempt to make them equal in strength (if less in quantity) to all the other mundanity of my days.

I think there’s an important lesson in this life that involves learning how to balance these swings, or at least acknowledge them. To make the methodical cleaning of toilets, mildewed swimsuits and fingerprints on every glass surface (or long day at work dealing with the public or a jerk boss) be as equal in strength to the wondrous awe of watching the sunlight hit your baby’s hair revealing the colors of your own for the first time. (Or, let’s face it, what you think the color of your own might be.)

And perhaps it’s not something as precise as an equation to be equaled, or pendulum to be steadied, but instead, something more natural, arcane even; more like a gravitational, orbital path. Because if it’s an orbit, that means there is a core; something with a pull so strong it can both swallow, and save us. It’s gotta be the whole reason for this Life in Motion; the force behind the pull in opposite directions, around and around.

Something I must try less and less to fight and more and more to slip inside of; make peace with.

Yes… a spinning, orbiting, rotating, paradoxical life of happiness and discord in equal strengths, if not measures, but always surrounding the same white-hot center. A burning, beating heart of reason and purpose. The only thing that matters anyway… always.

“A light came and kindled a flame in the depth of my soul. A light so radiant that the sun orbits around it like a butterfly.” ~Rumi

Why I Told My Best Friend Not To Have Kids

One of my best friends is on the fence about having children, but I’m not, I told her not to. My advice isn’t because I regret becoming a mother, or that I think she’d be a bad one–on the contrary. I know she’d be a wonderful mother and I’ve never for one millisecond regretted having my children. My advice is based on what I believe it would do to her because I know what it’s done to me.

My friend and I, we are the exact same age almost to the day. We are Pisces. We have been friends for over 25 years and for more reasons than shared decades and zodiac signs, we are like family. We met when we were eight and for the first seven years, we lived a few blocks away from one another. As a result of working, busy, or preoccupied parents, we were part-feral children. Also, the 80′s were a different era for kids. Back then we were given a couple of dollars for McDonald’s and an entire day by ourselves to ride bikes provided we showed up when the street lights came on. We abused and enjoyed the freedom.

We grew up together in every sense of the phrase; we went to the same schools, had the same friends, cheered on the same squad and liked the same boys. We even drove the same kind of car. I know her family and she knows mine. I know all her stories and most her secrets. I know her better than she knows herself sometimes and it is for this reason that I tell her not to have children.

We Wild Child’s of the 80s, we were independent by default. I was the youngest of three and she was an only child and for our own reasons we learned self-preservation skills for survival. We were hell-bent on figuring out life on our own terms and we made many of the same mistakes along the way. We’re stubborn, passionate, empathetic and selfish fish.

Today, I am three years into the lesson on motherhood and like a good friend, I don’t want to see her falter like I have. Knowing what I know about this role, and knowing her like I do, I want her to know the things no one tells you before jumping off this cliff. I want her to know exactly what this shape-shifting role will do to her.

Even as I write that I know she won’t listen, not really. Own terms.

Friend: No one tells you when you become a mother about the overwhelming nature of the sacrifice. The effect children have on marriage, your time, body, identity and circadian rhythm are all alluded to with trite remarks like, “your life is about to change”  and, “better get your sleep now.” They are true, and none of them explains enough.

No one tells you that what you will give will be all you have–that the Giving Well will run dry but the only answer will be to dig deeper– all the way to China–and even then, it will never be enough. No one tells you that the amount of selfishness you have going into motherhood is conversely proportional to the degree of difficulty. I suppose those things aren’t easy to communicate. Cakes made out of diapers and platitudes on pastel cards are simpler.

No one tells you that the wreckage of your unreconciled past will come bubbling to the surface all over again in places you never thought to look such as pictures of the first day of preschool, first family dinners or stumbling over how to answer a toddler’s question about when you were a little girl.

No one tells you that your own mother-issues echo endlessly in your ears like storm waves crashing on cliff sides because as it turns out, mother-issues are as endless and relentless as waves crashing on rocks. No one tells you that having children forces you into that surf again and again…forever. Those are things you should know, Friend.

But every time, right after I tell her not to jump off that cliff into the abyss, I follow it up with… “but you’ll never regret it.”

The truth is Friend–and I know you know this is true–I am a better person because I became a mother. Yes, I am beaten down in many ways. Yes, I am sucked dry and left empty more times than I want, or is fair. Yes, I am overwhelmed to breathlessness. But what I’ve found in the process is something people only allude to in platitudes on pastel cards that never tell you enough. What I’ve found sifting through this unreconciled mess is pieces of forgiveness, shards of understanding, piles of patience and reams of capabilities for weathering so much more than I ever thought I could.

Yes, there is more fear, more doubt, and the nerves are more raw, forevermore… but I am also less stubborn, less adamant, less sure of anything and that has made more sure of everything.

I tell her not to have kids because I don’t want to see her at the bottom of this cliff afraid and forced to be brave in tsunami of wreckage that will resurface from her ocean floor. My empathetic fish’s heart will hurt watching her gasp for air like I have, because I know her– she’s a lot like me. I suppose in a way my advice is me being a selfish fish.

But she is too.

And the two of us, we swim very, very well… even in the roughest waters.

Holding It Together

I want to write. I just can’t. Well I can, just not well. It doesn’t feel important or necessary right now and I’m certainly not connected to any kind of creative force because we’re in No-Man’s Land and there is no inspiration here. It’s a liminal, dank place, full of stark shadows and lots of waiting and angst.

My life is so uplifting lately, isn’t it?

Last week my son went in for his routine, no-biggie, 12-month check up. Only he’s not 12 months, he’s 13 months. Something stupid and completely non-important came up at the last-minute before his actual 12-month check-up when he was actually 12 months old–so instead of going to the “routine” appointment, we rescheduled. In doing so, we pushed his no-big-deal-check-up out a month so we could see our primary pediatrician.

So now he’s 13 months old and our baby boy who looks, acts and seems as healthy as any 1-year-old you could imagine… is waiting for a diagnosis. BAM! JUST LIKE THAT! OUTTA NO WHERE! BECAUSE LIFE WAS GETTIN’ A LITTLE TOO EASY FOR ME LATELY SO WHY NOT ADD SOMETHING ELSE TO PILE OF SHIT! HM? HM? HM!????!!!

Slight correction: Except for the daily needle pokes and blood draws, my son is oblivious to the waiting. WE are waiting for a diagnosis. And by waiting, I mean trying to ignore the whole thing so we don’t bust wide open into a million pieces of what if’s and worst-case scenarios.

I can’t share what’s wrong with him because no one knows. Our doctor calls him “The Mystery Patient” like we’re on some episode of Mystery Diagnosis. I’m not going to list all the reasons he’s being tested because I could not hold my shit together if people started giving me helpful suggestions like,  “it could be this chronic condition”…and… “maybe it’s this terrifying syndrome”…or…”hey, that sounds like XYZ terminal disease!”

No, I’m not going there.

For now, we’re just clock-watching, phone-answering and sleep-walking through the impossibly long gauntlet that is waiting to know what’s wrong with your child. It’s every bit as horrifying as it sounds. Everyday is another test, another guess, another appointment with a specialist. We’re exhausted in every way but mostly from trying to ignore our internal dread, which as it turns out, takes quite a lot of energy.

This week was supposed to be all about my daughter and her first week at gymnastics, dance and preschool. Instead, all those things have been eclipsed by our very own, real-life episode of shitty reality TV. However, all those thing are still going on so it’s been busier than usual and mostly I feel like this…
Part of that meltdown, is holding back a tidal wave of Worst Mother Ever Syndrome. GOD why didn’t I just take him to his appointment a month ago?!? Why wasn’t I more concerned that he’s been wearing the same size clothes for 7 months? Why in the world would I think my son’s slow-motion blinking was his unique way of communicating with me?!? I’M SUCH AN IDIOT!? WHY DIDN’T I SEE?!? WHY DIDN’T I KNOW?!?

See what I mean? A tsunami of guilt just under the surface.
Until then… until I’m allowed to freak-out and break down or (hopefully) fall on my knees awash in grace and gratitude or maybe just reconcile a new reality… here is my perfectly perfect little man. He’s oblivious and adorable and seemingly healthy in every way… Please God. Please let it be every way.

Sorry for all the shitty writing.