Community, Redefined.

Community: “a feeling of fellowship with others, as a result of sharing common attitudes, interests, and goals.”

Google has defined what I feel with my mama friends well.  We are a community.  We are parenting with similar principles albeit different styles.  We share love for our own children and the children of our dear friends.  We have a shitty morning and then meet at a park in our yoga pants and suddenly, everything is better.  We teach our children how to share and collaborate with one another.  We push another mama’s toddler on the swing so she can nurse her baby.  We share snacks.  We swaddle and bounce a newborn on an exercise ball so her mama can take a break.  We love.  We give.  We all do it.  No one is exempt, and we ebb and flow into different roles, supporting one another.  We are a community.  One of the best I have ever known.

Sometimes I wish we were a true community.  That we fell into Google’s second definition: “a group of people living in the same place or having a particular characteristic in common.”  Sometimes I long to be living in a different time.  One where we women could sit around our fire stirring porridge, sharing stories, and calming the young.  Where we could offer our breast to our best friend’s babe if she wasn’t able to without society calling us crazy.  Where we could birth together, celebrate together, mourn together.  Like really together.  In this place, we could find a kind of support that nowadays we can only dream of. 

But here we are, and it’s 2014, and we’ve created a beautiful community that fits within society’s social norms.  We celebrate birthdays together and actual birth days.  We laugh over our parenting mishaps and the fact that our 3 ½ year old still craps his pants daily.  We cook each other meals: rich Indian curries, tangy gazpachos, buffalo chicken sandwiches on buttery biscuits.  And, we love on each other’s children.  We hug and kiss them and celebrate them.  We correct their wrongs with compassion, and open our homes to each other, learning, growing, doing this together.

But what happens when crisis hits a community like ours?  When it digs its sharp claws into the safe bubble of love we’ve created with each other.  What happens when someone falls, loses, crumbles?  How do we pick up the pieces? 

I don’t know if I have the answer to this question yet, but good heavens, we’ve been tried and will be again.  I know other communities out there fighting a similar battle, and I look to them to find answers.  I know what I went through with my dad and how my community united.  Thoughts, prayer, meals, texts, cards, flowers, gifts, words, moments.  None of it feels like enough, does it?  I find moments where I literally feel like I could reach inside my chest, yank out my heart, and give a piece of it to my friends to sustain them through tragedy.  Here you go, my dear.  You need this more than I do right now.

I love my mama friends and their big hearts.  I love how they care.   They care deeply, and it is steadfast.  I don’t know how a community like ours endures through heartache so raw, but I am finding this out.  And in the end, we will survive and support and share in celebration once again because we must for the sake of the little ones who’ve brought us together.  We will stand by each other and offer the best support we know how to give, no matter how simple it may seem.  And in doing all of this, we will create something we never knew possible.  I promise you, we will dropkick Google’s ass out of the park with our definition of what it is to be a community, and to be a part of something like that – that’s special.

Love you.

I'm Too Shy.

What I love about language is its ability to tell a story.  Each of us gets to use language to tell our own unique story.  We might use some of the same words, but despite what Webster says, our definitions vary.  There’s no way they couldn’t.  When we speak, hear, or read certain words, our brain conjures up an image almost immediately.  Most likely, this association is based on a past experience, our perspective molded and shaped by the life we’ve lived.

It’s been a long time coming, but I finally confronted my own story.  The words that make up my story are “sensitive” and “shy” often with the adverb “overly” in front of each.  I am not sure when these words took on a negative connotation in my mind.  Perhaps it was when a teacher said to my parents at conferences, “She’s so shy.  I am worried there’s something wrong with her.”  Maybe it was the million times I felt my face flush in response to sarcasm or an off-the-cuff remark.  Or it could be watching in awe naturally extroverted individuals climb up the social ladder.  It is clear that somewhere along the way, along the path of my story, I got confused.

Interestingly enough, “sensitive” and “shy” are the same words that I have used to describe my 3 ½ year old son to his teachers and new friends.  When he hides behind my leg as we enter his classroom, I have found myself saying, “He’s feeling shy today.”  When he was at a birthday party and burst into tears in the bouncy castle, I explained to a friend, “He’s a super sensitive kid.”  His teachers don’t say this.  They say he’s kind, compassionate, a good friend.  Other kids’ parents say, “I hope my son turns out just like Calvin.  He’s such a great kid.” 

It really hit home when the other day Calvin wouldn’t say hello to a friend we ran into at the store.   When we left the store, I asked, “Buddy, why didn’t you say hi?”

“Because I’m too shy, Mommy,” he said.

Cue heart exploding into a million pieces.

What came next was of course me profusely trying to redefine “shy” so that his impressionable little brain didn’t think he was anything other than perfectly amazing.

“Sensitive” and “shy” are two of many adjectives that describe my son.  Wrapped up in them is so much goodness.  Calvin is sensitive to others’ feelings.  He pats the back of an injured pal, shares his toys beautifully, and hugs and kisses his brother incessantly.  He’s sensitive to situations.  “It’s OK Mommy.  No biggie,” he tells me when I spill pancake batter all over the countertop.  “You’re hair looks beautiful today, Mommy,” he says on the once-in-a-blue-moon days I manage to wash, dry, and straighten it.  "Daddy, you need to take turns with Mommy.  Tonight it's her turn to read me books."  In Calvin’s shyness is his ability to assess a situation before he jumps in – discernment, a skill our world could use more of.  He’s rarely loud and unruly and focuses well.  He takes it all in.

What I don’t want him taking in is the language of my story – the definitions twisted by my past associations.  That’s my problem to fix.  It’s my job to embrace my own adjectives and see all of their good.  That teacher who told my parents there was something wrong with me – she has her own story.  Those kids who called me “big eyes” on the bus and laughed as my face grew red – they have theirs.  And even those seemingly confident extroverts whose rise appears effortless – of course they have theirs. 

I encourage you, dear reader, to think about the words you use to tell your story and the story of wee ones who are learning to formulate their own.  What adjectives can you redefine?  In places society has defined as weak, where can you find strength?  Language is our gift to pass on.  Let’s work on telling a story that is positive and empowering.  One that will eventually become a past association that moves us toward a place within that feels like home. 

200th post.

In honor of my 200th post, I've given my blog a mini-makeover which is always fun.  I've been meaning to do it, been meaning to get back to regular blogging.  Auditioning and making the cast of Boulder's Listen to Your Mother show was a boost I am so grateful for.  My novel has pretty much been taking over any time I have to write, but I'm in need of a break - a sit-back and stew over what should happen in the end kind of break.  It's the kind of break that I think will be hugely telling of whether I should finish or start something new.  I guess it's an intimidating break because the idea of starting something new and putting aside the 50,000 words already written kind of makes me want to hide away in the mountains Thoreau-style.  The writer's life.  How glamorous it is.  As much as it stresses me out, I love it.  I love Wednesday mornings when my boys are taken care of by lovely people and I get to sit at a coffee shop furiously writing down all of my latest thoughts.  I store them up over the week, dozens of iPhone notes and Post-It scrawls waiting for me to assemble and weave into my story.  It's really exhilarating, especially when it just works.  I am excited to get back to this space, to write from my heart about this place in life.  

Along with the makeover, I have some new ideas for the blog.  I'm not sure how they'll take shape yet, but I am hoping to publish here some of my shorter fiction pieces.  I am excited to do this but also nervous.  Writing fiction is way more vulnerable for me, so sharing it will be an interesting process.  I will also be writing more articles about living in "the middle place" and of course bringing up issues that strike me.

Back in 2009, with some hesitation, I started this blog.  My intention then was to keep record of my (mostly random) thoughts about life.  In honor of "200," I went back and read through my blog archives.  There were posts I didn't even remember writing - some that made me flush with the realization that I knew basically nothing about life.  I see a girl with a rosy view (not that that's horrible) and zero responsibility besides herself.   Garsh, I kind of find her annoying!

I thought about deleting some of the early posts and starting fresh, but then I realized that there's something really beautiful about seeing my changes and growth through written word over the past five years.  In 200 posts, I have grown from a child to a woman.

I've started my dream job, left my dream job and created a new dream job.  I'm not a teacher in the traditional sense, but when I write with young adults, my heart soars.  I've almost written a novel.

I'm fulfilling my dream to be a stay-at-home mom, business owner, writer.  

I've lost my dad and gained two boys who have my heart.  

I've had two natural childbirths and still have a husband who is over-the-moon excited about sleepless nights and early mornings because he gets to do it with me. 

I've distanced from some friends and grown closer to a few I couldn't live without.  My sister lives here and is my best friend, and I am going to be an aunt.  I have mama friends who get what this is all about.  

My boobs have migrated, but I've nourished two humans.  I feel wrung out in a good way after yoga, and I've rediscovered swimming.  I actually took a dance class...many dance classes.  (HA!)  

My weaknesses are wine and chocolate (whose aren't?), but I've added green smoothies.  I'm gluten free now and miss dumplings the most.  My Crohn's has been in remission for eight years, and I'm not on any meds.  

I have learned that spirituality for me comes in the shape of a yoga pose or a trail and to let others find their own.

There's more.  Of course there's more.  But for now, I'm looking ahead, thankful for the past 200, but excited for what's to come.

Holy Guacamole!

I just found out that I have been chosen for Boulder's Listen to your Mother show.  I am SO honored and excited to be a part of this amazing tribute to motherhood.  Check out a show in your city on Mother's Day.  More to come on this.  I swear.

The Body War.

The strange thing about Facebook is that you can have a link to a cancer survivor’s blog bookended by an ad for Western wear and a photo like this.  This, in case you didn’t click, is the photo of fitness guru Maria Kang, six-months postpartum and completely ripped, which has been circulating the Internet like crazy causing debate among women mainly surrounding the tagline above the photo which reads “What’s your excuse?”  When I first saw this photo, I reacted like a lot of women probably did: with an eye roll and a bypass.  I also had a baby six months ago but look nothing like this.  Overall, I’ve been focusing on patience, as this will be the last time I give birth, nurse a baby to sleep, and work to rebuild strength lost through an amazing pregnancy.  But I’ll be honest.  There have been moments of real frustration, of throwing a pair of jeans across the room because they don’t fit, of cursing my feet that have jumped to a size 12, of looking in the mirror and feeling sad.  And I am not alone. 

I have a lot of beautiful friends.  Like seriously beautiful.  Like they have no idea how beautiful.  And these beautiful friends sometimes talk about their bodies and how they’re not so beautiful.  And many times these beautiful friends talk about their bodies this way when their beautiful children are present.  This is hard for me to hear.  It’s hard for me because I was one of those children who heard way too many adults complaining about their bodies.  In college I had major body image issues and hid it from my friends and family.  To this day, many people don’t know how badly I struggled.  Thankfully, I had help of a few who were aware and managed to overcome this kind of existence that made me feel so trapped.  At last, I was free.  I moved to working with young adults with affective and eating disorders on an inpatient unit and saw the extremes of what it is to be imprisoned.  I knew nothing until I saw these young women (and men) and heard their stories. 

All this body-talk got me thinking.  We, as women, have a narrative, don’t we?  Or at least if we don’t, society has one for us.  The story is predictable, and it’s getting old.  Society has made us into these uber body-conscious beings, but we seem to have forgotten the basics.  What is the role of our body?  It’s a fourth grade health class question.  Our body protects and moves.  It houses our mind, heart, and spirit.  It can hold and nourish another being.  It can scour Earth to look for another one to take care of.  It experiences a wide array of sensations.  It grows old, and it dies.  It is ours for one life, this one.  And yet we are at war.  So many of us are at war with our bodies.  Our wars vary, but in each one, the body is an enemy.  Many of us have a choice whether or not to go to war.  Some unfortunate souls do not. 

Many months ago, I began following a friend of a friend’s journey with breast cancer.  I do not know this woman personally, but I was touched by her story because, like so many others, I have held a loved one’s hand as he battled a relentless cancer.  When I hopped on Kara’s blog as a reader, she was undergoing chemotherapy, fighting alongside her amazing husband, four beautiful children, supportive friends, and loving community.  Since, she has learned that her cancer metastasized and is in the process of dealing with a new reality.  In her most recent post, she talks about her attempts to embrace the present moment despite a yearning to create spaces where she will be remembered.  I have started this next sentence a thousand times because it will be the one in which I try to describe her and what her story means to me.  Grace, beauty, honesty, courage, and strength all seem to be good adjectives, yet none of them quite encapsulate this woman.  She is living well in the face of a tragedy.  Her body is dying, but her hope and spirit remain alive.  I hope that you will read her words for yourself and get to know her.  Kara is forced into a war she doesn’t want to fight.  And here we are complaining about our muffin tops. 

I know, I know, it’s all relative is what you’ll say.  And yes, eating disorders and negative body image are real problems that aren’t easily fixed.  But, cancer.  Cancer.  Cancer sucks.

I don’t think you need cancer to be a hero, though I think Kara is the one of the greatest I’ve ever “known.”  I don’t think you need to always love the way you look to be a hero.  And I don’t think you need to plaster bikini-clad photos of yourself on the Internet to be a hero.  I do think that being a hero in this war means that you have awareness and desire for change and take steps toward a new kind of existence.  An existence where we celebrate our bodies more often than criticizing and over-examining.  I think being a hero in this war means that you are supportive of your comrades and understand that we cannot fight alone.  As a collective group of women, we must – we must – create a counter-narrative to the story that’s already written.  Use positive affirmations, use self-talk, use inspirational people like Kara to move you.  Whatever you do, come home a hero.

It's my party, and I'll cry if I want to.

Today is my birthday, and I didn't realize it until 6:00 a.m. when I was snapping at Angus to adjust the pillow behind my back so I could comfortably nurse my 5-week-old son.  "Happy birthday," my groggy husband said with a kiss.  Then he rolled back over and fell into a deep sleep.  

HA!  No way.  Rather, he closed his eyes savoring his last minute of quiet before I asked him to swaddle and bounce Kyle back to sleep so I could close my eyes and savor my last minute of quiet before hauling my butt out of bed to start the day on five hours of sleep.  Meanwhile, Calvin started chirping in the monitor next to my ear.  "A, B, C, D, E, F, G!" he sang to his stuffed animals.  At least this morning didn't start out like many others with Puppet and Llama in time-out, which then causes me to lay awake questioning our disciplinary tactics.

Anyway, so that was the morning.  The big birthday morning.  I could go into more detail about the milk stains, hormonal sweat residue, farting infant, boxer-clad husband, and defiant toddler, but that might scare some of you.  I don't want to be responsible for scaring anyone out of having kids.  

Now this would be the logical turning point for this post.  Where I say something like, "This is fucking hard but SO worth it.  Kids are amazing.  Kids rock.  Kids are God's gift.  I am enjoying every moment, even the poopy, whiney, screamy, plugged milk ducty, first hemorrhoidy, and postpartum flabby ones."  But, I'm not going to use this as a segway because, DUH.  Of course all this is true.  (Well, most of it.)  Isn't it a given that I feel this way since I was the one who said, "Yes, impregnate me.  Yes, I'll do two childbirths with no drugs.  Yes, I'll quit my job and be a stay-at-home-mom.  Yes, I'll fall in love with two other boys besides my darling husband.  YES!"  Isn't it clear that I'm in a state of bliss?  After all, I said yes.

When we show our weaknesses to the world, friends reach out.  When we say, "This is hard; this kinda sucks; I'm struggling," kind souls sympathize.   Uplifting ones remind us how lucky we are.  Supportive ones relate.  But the BEST are the ones who say, "You are RIGHT!  This does suck!  These kids are a pain in my ass!" 

So right now, you will be the best.  You will let me say, "No! Oh HELL NO!  You cannot possibly be hungry AGAIN!"  You will let me say this, if for no other reason, because it's my birthday.  And on my birthday I want to be ALONE on a deserted tropical island sipping beverages with high alcohol content while laying in the sun listening to waves crash on the shore.  Take me out of this moment and teleport me into another!  Please!

It's nearing 6:00 p.m.  I've been awake for twelve hours but it feels like a thousand.  Junior is snoozing in his swing, and Senior is playing with his Papa.  A meal is en route, a birthday lunch with a friend is complete, texts and calls have been received.  I'm settling into 32.  I'm saying yes, I'm saying no, I'm shrugging my shoulders.  I'm loving and hating.  Laughing and crying.  Leaking, wiping, feeding, cuddling, singing, soothing.

Living.

I dedicate this post to the itty-bitty dose of caffeine in my decaf Americano, for without you, this masterpiece would not have been possible.

"Rick or reat!"

About a month ago, I decided I’d make Calvin’s Halloween costume for the first time.  He’s crazy about fish these days, so I figured it’d be safe to make a little goldfish costume he couldn’t possibly reject.  And, thankfully, he loved it.  As the day approached, we practiced wearing the costume to a few events we had planned with friends and family.  We talked about the concept of “trick-or-treating” but understood that it probably wouldn’t completely sink in until we were actually engaged in the act of doing so. 

On Halloween, our community organizes something called a Munchkin Masquerade where all the restaurants and shops downtown on Pearl Street hand out candy to young trick-or-treaters.  This was our first year going, and I had no idea what to expect, so I told Angus to stay at work, that I’d take Calvin down myself.  Little did I know that this event is HUGE and there are massive crowds, families dressed up in coordinating costumes, fire trucks and buses parked for kids to climb on, and gooey, sugary candy being handed out in droves.  Needless to say, I was a tad overwhelmed, and I think at a few points, namely the ones where adults in weird costumes got too close, Calvin was too.  And despite being surrounded by ghosts, monsters, and aliens on all sides, I felt strangely lonely as we meandered down the street.  There’s something about being in a crowd of people that calls to attention what or who is missing.  Maybe that’s a pessimist’s way of looking at the world, and I’ll admit, there are moments that I tend to fall a bit more on the glass-is-half-empty end of viewing things.  But, as I watched the commotion ensue around me and Calvin, I couldn’t help but miss the one who took me trick-or-treating for the first time, the one who dressed up as a scary pirate and sat on our front step, the one who made events like Halloween fun, and the one who would have eaten up every moment of yesterday –  the proud grandpa of my little fish. 

         It wasn’t just my dad that I missed.  It was that feeling of being a child and seeing my parent more excited about something than I was.  The comfort of ritual and tradition is what I found myself longing for, and part of me felt crappy for downplaying this event, for not dressing up like the other parents, for telling Angus to just skip it.  But there was a full night ahead, so I brushed it off, gave Calvin a lolli-pop and took off for home. 

When we got home after our downtown adventure, and it was nearing the time for trick-or-treating in our neighborhood, I had pizza to assemble, a house to pick-up, and friends to socialize with.  And a sweet, sweet husband, who just came off a stressful day, to hug and kiss.  Something tells me that as I did hug and kiss him, he sensed in me what I couldn’t put to words at the time.  He said with a smile, “You go trick-or-treating with him.  I’ll stay here and man the door and the pizzas.”  And what he was really saying was, “Even though I’d really like to go trick-or-treating with our son since I worked all day, you go because I know you need it right now.  Go out there and have fun with Calvin.”

         And selfishly I said, “OK…if you’re sure…” and went.

         It was magical.  That is neither an exaggeration nor a sarcastic remark.  It really was magical.  I watched my son and his friend, both freshly 2-years-old, learn house-by-house what this trick-or-treat tradition is all about.  I watched them ding doorbells, say, “Happy Hall-ween” and “Rick or Reat” and “Thank you.” I watched them boldly attempt to grab multiple pieces of candy versus one piece at the later houses and shriek with delight as they ran down the dark street.  I saw our friends’ daughter take two candies when a woman told her to take one for her mommy, which makes perfect sense as she has two mommies.  My heart wanted to reach around that small moment and protect and shout out its beauty.  I saw my son bite into a Tootsie Roll with the paper still on and drool the sticky goodness of the sugar he has so rarely tasted.  I saw neighbors and kids dressed up and heard the sounds of laughter and sugar-highs bouncing up and down the streets.

And in this magic, I saw my dad.  I realized that this is the start of where I get to be like him in all the ways that he shined brightest: exuding this excitement for childhood traditions that cannot be feigned but instead comes naturally.  This is where my children expect me to live in the moment with them and love that I actually do…or at least give it my best.  And aren’t the rewards of doing so the absolute greatest?  When I agree to play trains with my son, he does the Arsenio Hall fist pump.  When I play peek-a-boo with him, his smile is enormous when he uncovers his face.  When I eat breakfast next to him, he feeds me pieces of his precious granola.  When I read him books at bedtime, he asks for “just one more” but lets Mommy pick. 

So, this afternoon after his nap, when my son asked, “Rick or Reat?”, pointed to his fish costume, and carried around his empty candy basket, I knew he too felt the magic of last night.  He felt the magic of the moment.  He felt the magic of my dad.  Of me.  Of our family creating ritual and being together.  And that is worth everything to me.