Killing Superwoman

The Hard with the Soft

2011-10-29T16:17:00.000-04:00

It was a hard day today. For me and my children. The hardness of the day was really just the result of a terrible week disintegrating into an emotionally charged heap of dust.  Each night this week, at some late hour, I found myself mentally collapsed with all of my thoughts folded on top of each other like a damp newspaper.

This morning I could not get unfolded, unstuck, or undone from my sleepless night and achy body.
I was a mess, off kilter from the moment I opened my eyes. And you moms know how it is, if mama is off kilter, everyone is off kilter.   I found myself taking it out on the kids, by harping on their every transgression and getting angry for their inability to operate in my disorganization and chaos.    I woke up late and they got scolded for moving to slowly. I forgot to oversee my 7 year old take his medicine and then yelled at him when he couldn't get himself together in order to get dressed. My off-kilter self actually attempted a visit to the pediatrician all with a overly hyper and sensitive 7 year, a Chatty Kathy (and whiny) 5 year old and a 9 year old with an absolute bona fide terror of needles. And it was vaccination and flu shot day.

I was bad-tempered and insensitive.

There was a moment in the Dr's office, where my daughter was pulling on my jeans saying, "mama, mama, mama,mama, mama" over and over again. My usually super brave and try anything 9 year old was starting to hyperventilate because the nurse came in with the needle, and my 7 year old was pretty much rolling on the floor wearing nothing but a pair of jeans. Nothing - he forgot to put underwear on. Generally I can pull it together and whip everyone into shape. Today, I sat down, bowed my head and covered my eyes and started crying. It startled my children to silence. Almost. But before the first string of tears hit my chin, I was up, wiping my eyes and pulling a 71 pound boy onto my lap to hold him as he got his shot.   I answered my daughter's burning question and managed to coerce my 7 year old to put on his shirt and shoes. Then, in a instant we were off to the boy's Halloween Parade and Party.
We made it through the rest of the day with only a few more tears. Most of them occurred when I told my husband about how terrible I was to my children.

It was my night to put the kids to bed.  Instead of our regular routine, I crawled into bed next to my 7 year old, hugged him and told him how sorry I was about the day. He gave me a big soft sleepy hug in return and started to tell me how sorry he was. I stopped him short and told him that he didn't have to apologize for a thing. Why should he have to apologize for being 7? I could feel all the anxiety melt from his body. Being around me had put him on pins and needles. I saw from the corner of my eye, my oldest pop his head over the side of the bunk.

I climbed the ladder and slid into his bunk. I didn't have to say much, he was just happy I was there. I had been forgiven the moment I placed my bare foot on the bottom rung of his bunk bed ladder. It was a hard day, one I helped create...and I'm sorry for pulling my children into my anxiety ridden whirlwind. But at the end of the day, but my boys forgiveness gave me a soft landing.

We Were All There...9/11

2011-09-11T21:55:00.000-04:00

I was late for work as usual and was rushing into the elevator to take me to the 9th floor of my office building. It was about 8:50am at the latest. There were several people stuffed into the elevator and it was the first time I heard that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. The information was second or third hand - the man who brought us this news was as in the dark as the rest of us. People responded with the normal sentiments, "Oh my goodness, really?" and "Oh no. I hope that people weren't hurt." We all thought it was just a terrible incident. I prayed silently for a miracle that no one got hurt and got off my floor to start my day.

I rounded the bookcases, that separated our section of the office from the rest. My friend Laurie who sat in the desk next to me told me that a plane flew into the World Trade Center. Some of my co-workers had TVs because they needed continual access to CNN and the news, so we all crowded around the few that were available.

My memory at this point is fuzzy. I don't recall what part I saw - or if it was in real-time or re-play. Watching all the memorial shows today leads me to believe that we were watching it in real time. I remember the second plane at some point. The next thing I remember was the World Trade Center dissolving into the concrete of the Manhattan. At some point I walked from the office and back to my desk in a very sad confusing fog. Ten years later the events have rolled into a sad blurry memory.

I remember a young friend who worked close to the Pentagon call me near hysterics. She had heard the explosion from Hijacked Plane 77 crashing into the walls of the Pentagon. My friend was almost in tears and kept asking me, "What should I do? What should I do?" After seeing firsthand the attack of the World Trade Centers although I can't remember exactly - I know that I told her to get out of there and go home.

Somewhere in that time - that very short time between 8:50am and 10:00am, it became clear that there was another hijacked plane that was headed to DC with its target either the White House or the Capitol. It was at that time that I knew there was a possibility that I could be in danger. Our office was just a few blocks away from the White House and the Capitol. My husband, Jon called, he worked near the Pentagon and he and his co-workers had left their office. I told him about the third plane heading for D.C.. At that time I knew that the White House was being evacuated. It was weird. Danger that close. It could take just a slight miscalculation and our building could be struck.

I remember Jon asking me what my plan was. To be honest I was sitting at my desk stunned as was my friend Laurie. We really did not know what to do. I told Jon that our security/facilities people told us that our building was, "the safest place to be".    My husband stated very frankly, " How do they know? That is what the people in the World Trade Center were told. You need to get home." His point being that no one really knew or could predict completely what the next few hours or even minutes held.
Even one of our Partners - the most Senior next to my boss, told Laurie and I that although the suggestion was to stay where we are, that we were free to leave. Reports and rumors were already swirling around about the Metro being targeted as well as the Capitol and White House.  Our building was just so close to it all. After hanging up with Jon, I grabbed my laptop bag and stated to my co-worker I was going home.

I decided that if anything happened, if that missing plan got even slightly off course, I would rather die on my way home to my family than die at my desk house in an ugly cubicle. So I made my way home - on the Metro - and held my breath almost the entire way - wondering if there would be some sort of underground attack. I didn't take a proper breath until I got on my bus that completed my journey to my house - miles away from Downtown DC.

10 years later, I still find it hard to believe that over 2,000 people were killed within minutes of each other. I still can't fathom that when I woke up on the morning of September 11, 2001, the World Trade Center Towers were standing and intact, but before lunch...they were gone. And the world as I knew it had changed.  What stays with me since that day 10 years ago is the imagery of hundreds perhaps thousands of people running from the monumental collapse of the towers. I remember their eyes were filled with a combination of fear and exhaustion. The inferno of dust blackend everything for seconds - even my tv screen. The images and sound were eerily reminiscent of all the armageddon and nuclear winter movies I saw as a kid. The white -then black -then gray dust covered Ny for what seemed like miles. It sticks with me because I know that within that dust were the remains of thousands of people obliterated because of hatred and insanity. 9/11 scarred our collective soul.

So many killed in the Twin Towers, Pentagon and in Pennsylvania. I can't bear to think about those that knew they were going to die. The passengers on the aircrafts that were manipulated into massive bombs. The people in the stairways of the towers that could hear the world coming down on their heads, or the ones that looked out of their windows to see a commercial jet speeding into thier offices.

Everyone who died were the people who made up our communities. They were Black, White , Asian, Indian and Arab. They were male and female, young and old. They were gay and straight, Democratic and Republican. There were Christians, Muslims, Jews, Agnostics, and Atheists. There were new moms and newlyweds, there were people about to celebrate family milestones like birthdays and anniversaries. I think about the people who may have just fallen in love, or broken up with their sweethearts.  There were people who had said happy words to their loved ones and those who were just trying to get where they needed to go to do what they needed to do. I think about the school children on one of those jets whose excitement dissolved into confusion and terror before their lives were cut short. All of those people represented every single one of us. We were all there.

Noelle's "When I was Born" Story

2011-08-17T12:26:00.000-04:00

A few nights ago, my sons were at a slumber party at a neighbors house. My four year old, Noelle, went to the cake and ice-cream portion, but had to come home when the "after-party" kicked in. As a treat, I hosted our own very mini slumber party in my bed while Daddy worked in his home office.
At bedtime I wrangled her always dancing body into her nightgown, gave her her meds, and slathered her with lotion and medicated cream. Soon it was time to turn off the lights (and the incessant talk) and get down to the business of sleeping. We settled down , under my favorite deep red quilted bedspread, and adjusted our bodies to create the perfect mother daughter fit. Noelle instinctively knows how to wriggle her body just so, in order to fit her head, wild itchy hair and all, neatly under my chin and press her little legs against mine. She even maneuvers my arms to get them positioned just right across her torso. She does all of this in a matter of seconds.

I often wonder if her body remembers being in my womb with her twin. They were always tightly curled together and it took more than an average amount of investigation to determine where one baby started and the other ended. After several weeks of being on the job of strict bed rest, I learned to wait patiently and think of other things as hospital staff poked and prodded me for what seemed like eons. More often than not, it was Noelle who was the culprit hiding under or behind her sister.

There we were in the dark of my room, nestled together whispering about all that is important to a four year old girl. Noelle whispered about how she missed her brothers. She asked me questions about where Daddy was and why I turned off the light when she was going to do it.  I recall slightly one-sided conversations about a "my little pony" wish list, antics of her stuffed dog Aimee and how Patrick from Sponge Bob was "kinda dumb". Eventually I quieted her down by saying, " Let me tell you the story of when you were born."

Once upon a time there was a little itty baby named Noelle who was born in October. She only weighed 2 pounds when she was born, and when she peed-peed for the first time, she weighed only 1 pound and a few ounces. Noelle was the smallest baby in the whole hospital. But she was the loudest!

One day Mommy came to visit Noelle in the hospital, and before she even got to the baby room, she heard this loud crying from the long hallway outside. Although mommy never heard Noelle really cry before, she knew it was her.  Noelle sounded like an angry baby cat, a kitten. Mommy called to the nurse, "Is that my baby?!" And the nursed laughed and said, yes it is!"

Because Noelle was such a little bits, Mommy and Daddy could not pick her up until she was about 5 days old. It was a happy day when the Drs said that as long as Mommy and Daddy were very careful they could pick up their little baby. Noelle had tubes and wires coming from everywhere on her little body. Even her head! And it was easy to tell because Noelle was almost completely BALD!

Daddy was the first one to hold Noelle. He was so surprised at how tiny she was. Noelle was the size of a banana! But instead of being bright yellow and smooth like a banana - she was pink and wrinkly. Daddy whispered, "Hi Baby Girl - Hi Noelle." And guess what? Noelle opened her eyes and gave her Daddy a great big smile!

The nurses said that babies really don't smile. "They are just learning how to work their little faces".  Well. All I can say is that baby smiled everytime Daddy said her name.

Noelle was so small she could not drink milk from mommy. The hospital had to feed her through a special tube. One day the nurse told Mommy to try to get Noelle to drink from her breast. Everyone warned mommy that, "She probably will not be strong enough to drink - but your warm body will help her grow." Mommy put itty bitty naked Noelle on her breast.  And that wonderful tiny baby started sucking and drinking right away. She was drinking so fast and so much that mommy called out to the nurse, "She's drinking here..." and the nurse ran right over. They had to stop Noelle from drinking all mommy's milk because her tummy was so small.

Noelle stayed in the hospital for 72 days. She came home on December 23rd and was the best Christmas Present ever. Mommy was so happy that she carried Noelle all around. Do you know what Mommy's most favorite thing was? It was to gently gather Noelle up in her arms and to sway and dance while she sang, "The First Noel."

Noelle is a big 4 year old now. She has lots of hair, still loves to dance and still smiles each and every time she sees her Daddy.

I wish I could say that after our bedtime story, Noelle drifted off into a peaceful sleep. However, that's not the case. She asked me question after question about "when I was born" . She asked about her sister that didn't get to come home. She wanted to know if who was bigger and what she looked like. She couldn't quite grasp the idea that they were identical, but no matter, we talked on and on into the night.  Noelle asked what "nipples" were. I laughed because she pulled her nightgown up and called hers, "pimples."

Noelle finally settled down and fell asleep just in time for Daddy to carry her off to her room. He woke me us as he unwrapped her from my body and our red coverlet. I watched as he gently lifted her, and swung her onto his chest with her legs dangling freely. I suddenly felt the weight of her life and was amazed. Amazed at her long lean legs that reach farther than I ever expected. Amazed at her massive amount of wild, crinkley hair, when just a blink ago she had so little. In one moment I saw who she once was, and who she is growing to be.

It made me reallize that, when it comes to my children, time has both stood still and moved on at lightning speed.

Noelle often asks me to tell her the "when I was born" story. I tell it - and will tell it - everytime she asks.

Crying the "not enough time" Blues?

2011-07-25T10:48:00.000-04:00

Mama CJ said "Just get over it already!" I did.

I have been lamenting the fact that I just just can't get my writing schedule together. I complained about the time I spend with the kids, the volunteer work that I do at the schools, the cooking, the cleaning and all sorts of yikkity yak. My laments have made their way into my blogs, my conversations and most importantly my moods. Whenever I thought about writing I fell into a temporary depression.

However, last week I intentionally stated thinking about my writing dilemma - I mean really thinking. Digging deeper than my emotions and allowing the truth to rise to the surface. The real deal is this: I was not lamenting my lack of time. No matter how much I tried to tell myself being too busy was my issue. I was mourning the death of my disciplined writer self from year 2010. I was nostalgic about writing every morning and blogging and working on my projects at night. I was grieving the loss of my getting "it" done year. I blamed the demise of my writing to my bout of pneumonia in early December. I designated myself as the victim of time lost due to sickness and recovery.

My lost discipline had much more to do than sickness and time. My life changed. Circumstances were no longer as they were in 2010. My kids got bigger - and so did my mommy life and mommy obligations. I told myself to "Get over it and do whatcha gotta go!"

So last week, I did the miraculous. I stopped the internal yikkity yakking and paralyzing thoughts about the good ole days of last year. I released myself from the expectations I had for this year. I allowed my ties to the past and my ideal picture of writing perfection go. I GOT OVER IT!   I have stopped crying the "not enough time" blues. Well, for now. (Smile)

It's true - I don't have a lot of time unless I run myself to the bone. I don't have an attractive writing environment that is both private and inspiring. My computer is crap. I don't have a cozy sweater that I wrap myself in as I perfect my craft.  It is all MUCH less than perfect.

Still, I woke up one morning, grabbed a notebook and pen and started writing. No computer, no inspiring space, no good luck writing outfit. And the time issue, please... I wrote between baths and breakfast. I wrote between checking summer homework and whipping up tortellini for lunch. I wrote between tears, arguments and the occasionally poopy pair of undies.  No matter whether bad or good - I wrote. I got over myself and I put pen to paper the best way I could given the circumstances that presented themselves. It reminded my of how Stephen King sneaked off to a laundry room or pantry, sat in a corner with some sort of kiddie desk perched on his legs and wrote Carrie. The bottom line is if there is something in you - its gotta come out - or you will die inside.

You know my mission in my personal life is to Kill Superwoman. Let me clarify that it isn't because I personally don't want to be super. I want to be a super mom, super wife and super writer. But I have to kill this idea of perfection. Unlike this false superwoman in my head - I do not have perfect strength and stamina. I do not save the day and rise to hero(ine) ism in every situation. On a regular day there are no accolades with accompanying back slaps that signify "job well done Superwoman!" I have to kill that which insists that everything has to be "just so" in order for me to produce. I can move toward my idea of "just so." But until I get there - I have to do what I gotta do, the way I can do it in the NOW.

That means that I have to let go of the ideal past that paralyses me in my "now" moments.   I have to get over whatever jumps in my way in order to keep moving. So what it may not always look like I want, feel like I want or inspire me the way I want. . When a circumstance jumps in your way , just get over it the best way you can and do it. One of the things I say all the time in my presentations and speaking is - "It is what it is - while it is."   Everyday is an opportunity for me to make sure those circumstance, those "its" of my life do not stop me from being who I was created to be.

HELP! Summer Fun is too Hard!

2011-07-12T20:00:00.000-04:00

Welcome to Camp CJ! That's right, it is me this year with my three children. Can I tell you that fun in the sun is hard work and exhausting. I vowed this year that I would not let the kids sit in front of the TV and play computer or video games all day long. So the four of us (five on weekends with dad) have been out and about. Everyday. Playgrounds, playdates, rollerblading, swimming, and trips to the mall and grocery stores thrown in for good measure. This week it will be hiking, museums, playdates and mommy led guitar lessons.

In between all of this frolicking through the city, I have to try to keep the apartment clean, do laundry, work on my online vintage shop, work with my daughter's cooperative school and try to get some writing done. As a good friend says, "OY!"

To you parents who home school, I am awed by you. Do you get anything else done? You mommy writers that I see with updated blogs and new projects rolling out - how??? I am not just talking about time management skills, of which I have little- but how do you keep the momentum, the discipline, and the inspiration going? Especially when you are exhausted.

Let the Wild Rumpus Begin!

2011-06-16T09:15:00.000-04:00

My oldest son Jon-Jon, just turned 9 years old and I simply can't believe it. There is something about his aging that throws me for a loop when I pause long enough to think about it. There are days when Jon -Jon enters the room and I am like, "Who is this person?!"  I almost expect to see my smiley fat cheeked toddler thumping in the room wearing his daddy's size 12 shoes.   I no longer live with the little one who for three months told everyone that he was the famous Cars character, "Light-ling Duh Qween." The little boy that I described as being the color of perfectly fried chicken has grown into a slender, athletic well spoken boy. I am so proud of him - he is kind, engaging and a great student - but at the same time it makes me sad that he is slowly growing away from being my baby.

Last month I decided to knuckle down to write my memoir. Honestly, I feel like I am finally answering an overdue call . Since then, I have been reflecting on my life and it has made me a bit nostalgic. At the core of my memories and nostalgia are my children. Particularly Jon-Jon because he is my first. Although marrying my husband is hands-down the best decision I of my life thus far, having Jon-Jon is hands-down the event that totally changed my life. For me, there is no "before and after" more extreme than the before and after life of having children. My life before being marriage was definitely different, but my life before having Jon-Jon was massively different.

Although I had my 9 months of pregnancy which was difficult - the real change came at the very end of delivery when with one final push - a life emerged.   A living, breathing, being that was conceived and developed in the deepest part of me. I know everyone doesn't see the gravity, the seriousness of parenthood. But the idea that my children biologically came from me and I am now responsible for guiding them into who they are supposed to be.  To see that happening right before my eyes is astounding.

At 2:47pm on May 27th, 2002 I went from being able to get up and go wherever I want whenever I wanted to having to physically, spiritually and emotionally answer to the responsibility of protecting and nurturing this mini human.    My life went into overdrive immediately.  Even before the nurses wnet into their delivery room routine, I put Jon to my breast where he immediately latched on and fed until they whisked him away for his first bath.

Since then I have had my other two babies, Quentin and Noelle. When Jon emerged from my body into the world (in the most intimate and exposed way possible) life transitioned from sleeping naked, hangin' with my husband and late night movies to sore and swollen boobs, scraping up time to shower and late night trips for diapers and pacifiers. 9 years later life has transitioned further into PTA meetings, teachers conferences and soccer practices. Next it will be excruciatingly frank talks about sex, driving the car and body piercings.  For these last nine years I have been caught up in a complicated, fascinating whirlwind that is thundering by all too fast.

If I knew then what I knew now about the state of life - the moment Jon-Jon came slipping out, I would have stood on my swollen feet, threw my hands in the air and declared at the top of my lungs, "Let the wild rumpus begin!"

Bouncing from my Memories...Landing in my Story.

2011-05-16T13:55:00.000-04:00

I have been having a hard time with my writing. For the last three years I have been bouncing from project to project like a circus performer bouncing from trampoline to trampoline. Just when I think I have landed, another idea springs up and I go flying again into the air, hoping that this time when I land, I will be safely grounded once and for all.

When an idea first takes hold, it is exhilarating. I see the potential landscape, the paths that I could take and I imagine my final landing complete with applause and accolades.  It never comes. Instead of landing safely on solid footing, I hit another great idea and off I go again with all my previous ideas being flung violently to the wayside by my momentum.

I have been bouncing for too long. Everything in me is tired. All this continual movement has bred anxiety and fear because I know that my fabulous yet fleeting brainstorms can not sustain me much longer. I am soon going to loose my footing and go sprawling about hurt, tired and disgraced. It is time to stop the bouncing and just walk. One step at a time and get where I am supposed to be going.

Because so much time has passed, almost 5 years, it is hard for me to admit that I am still in the ripple effects of my deep depression from losing Lauren.  I understand that losing a child is not something you ever "get over". And I also understand that as long as you are moving forward and not stuck in your tragedy - there is no expiration date on grief. I have a right to be sad anytime the feeling arises. Yet, I constantly give myself a hard time because there is something in me that wants to "get over it".   Simply because I do not like the emotionality of it all.  I do not like feeling sad. I do not like feeling like something is still missing. I do not like the tightness I feel in my chest right before I cry. Although I am not cold and unfeeling, I am not overly emotional. In fact, I can detach from my emotions like a booster detaches from a rocket .  When the pressure hits I can jettison my feelings from a situation with a quickness. Except for this - I cannot detach. I can't turn the feelings off or keep the recollections at bay. They are with me everyday.  And what's worse, they call to me to write. Every single time I sit at my desk, or start a journal entry, I feel the pull.

So I bounce.

Last night, I couldn't get started. My mind was racing trying to decide what to do first. I became quietly overwhelmed and immediately took a pause. I sat silently in my creative disarray, surveying my personal landmine of half executed ideas. I am a writing jack of all trades, with not a whole lot to show for it. Last night I finally confessed that I have been ignoring the call, choosing instead to bounce around from one idea to another in order to avoid the inevitable. My racing mind slowed.  I landed. I have my story to tell. All of it.

Except - where to start?

Thank God I have a Thick Skin

2011-04-26T21:09:00.000-04:00

My son Quentin is a force to be reckoned with. Although he has a rather small frame for a 7 year old, he packs a whole lotta energy into that small wily body. When he enters a room, everything becomes fast and exciting. He reminds me of a dusty tumbleweed rolling about with the wind. It's fun to watch but don't get too close or you may get dust in your eyes.

My husband and I were laying around in our bed on Saturday - definitely a rarity - when my middle man Q came strolling in wearing his hand me down Lightning McQueen pajamas and sporting his crooked smile. Whenever I see him smile it first lightens my heart because his smile is so beautiful and sincere and then pinches me with guilt because I owe him a trip to the dentist. Anyway, here he was sauntering into our bedroom, looking very pleased and satisfied with himself. He flashed me my personal, "I love you" smile and with lighting speed leapt onto his daddy's chest. Full force. He landed with a thud. A groan followed.

Q wasn't moved, he threw his arms around his daddy who could do nothing but return the gesture. I know why it's called a bear hug now. It sounded like both father and son were growling as they tightly hugged and laughed. I love watching my children with their daddy. Everyday is Christmas when he comes home from work. His getting into the door is always a big production. I myself am not an emotionally demonstrative person, so I usually watch the excitement from a distance.

Big boy leaps up for a hug, middleman grabs him around his waist, and my littlest one wraps her skinny legs around one of his big legs and sits herself on his foot taking a ride as he waddles his way into the living room. It is a sight to see such a big man with these little children. I can see the joy and safety register on their faces and everyday is a constant reminder at how perfectly blessed I am. I know it is not the case with many families where the father is so open, generous and present with their children. The wonderful thing is when my three children immediately pull on daddy to tell a story, or kick the soccer ball, he always tells them the same thing. "I want some time with mommy." and he comes over to where I am sitting, or standing and plants his daily, "I'm home" kiss on my lips. It makes me feel special. I am never forgotten in the bustle of the entrance.

On this unusual day when no one had to jump up to work or rush to a soccer game - the three of us were laying on my queen sized bed. After Daddy and Q hugged, Daddy rubbed his face against Q who immediately pulled back and screeched.
"Daddy you hurt my face!" he laughed.
"With my beard?" Daddy asked.
"Yes - with your beard!" Daddy grabbed Q again and rubbed his scratchy stubble against Q's baby soft cheek. Q screeched again and then laughed.

Jon and I both told Q how each of us had those special moments when our daddies rubbed their unshaven rough faces against our cheeks when we were his age. Q delights in our stories and asks lots of questions about our experiences as children. Something about knowing we all experienced similar things with our parents unites us. We tell those stories as often as we can. When I started talking about my daddy who I named Q after, he slid over to my side of the bed and cuddled right up to me. As I told my story he stared intently into my face. I took advantaged of his attention and asked him seriously, "Are you growing a beard?" I pretended to survey his chin. He nodded earnestly and stated, "Yeah. I am." He rubbed his chin the way a grown man feels his face to survey how much shaving he has to do. He nodded again, keeping his fingers at his chin.
"You see these little tiny hairs?" he asked me - still seriously. I nodded.
"You see those little tiny hairs on my chin? They are there because I'm growing a beard." I nodded again.

"Just like you." he stated as his eyes surveyed the underside of my chin. There was a second of silence before Jon and I exploded in laughter. Q immediately realized on some level he said "the wrong thing." He was smiling but I saw concern in his eyes, " I'm sorry." he quickly apologized. I gave him a hug and assured them there was absolutely nothing to apologize for. He was happy again, particularly pleased about the laughter his actions generated and in his typical style bounded off the bed and out the door, leaving the bedroom door swaying slightly in his wake.

Thank God I have a thick skin.

Honoring April 25th

2011-04-25T22:08:00.000-04:00

April 25th is the day we buried our daughter 4 years ago. Last year was hard for me because I forgot. It's not the day she died. That day I will never forget.

This year I honored her memory by choosing to be happy. I was and I am.

The Echo of My Little One

2011-04-13T22:35:00.001-04:00

My daughter is now 4 and a half. There is not a day that goes by where I am not astounded by her presence. I am astounded that she is the less-than-2 pounder that fought so desperately to get and stay here. I am as fascinated by her life as I am saddened by her sister's death.

Almost a month ago now, my 7 year old had an asthma attack that landed him in a long ER visit. As is the custom, the triage nurses put him on the monitors to chart his breathing and oxygen levels. At first I didn't pay attention, but my son accidental (maybe) disconnected himself from the monitor and the alarm started beeping wildly. From the second that all to familiar sound filled the room, I was riveted to the screen. Not out of an obsessive need to follow my son's progress, I knew he had disconnected himself. But that sound. THAT sound. The ringing of that loud shrill alarm immediately transported me over the space and time of almost 5 years to that quiet shadowy NICU where I would sit in an old brown rocking chair transfixed on the sounds, colors and flashes of that black TV like screen that sought to tell me whether my littlest one would live or die.

I can smell the antiseptics and hand sanitizer. I know the exact pitch of the alarms, I can see the incubator that housed my little one who was so small it always took a minute to locate her when I first arrived. She was no bigger than a banana, but she was a mover - so much so that the NICU staff had to strap her to an elevated bed board. I would first try to spy out her little stuffed turtle that always rested by her ear, or on her shoulder. When I found that turtle, I would find my little one all taped and wired up with things coming out of her nose, head and hands. Those cords creeped from her body and spiraled up from the incubator's corner to spill out into the room like a malnourished octopus. With the cords came the beeping.

The memory of it all causes a shiver that starts from the middle of my gut and radiates out until it hits me at my shoulders. I feel like I ate a bucket of ice, or someone dragged their already raggedy fingernails across the length of a rough black board. It's creepy.

There was nothing creepy about those moments as I lived them.  Every second of those thousands of moments made up my reality at the time.  A reality that frankly kicked my ass - but I made it through in one piece as they say.  It wasn't on my own accord.  My "one piece" was being held together by antidepressants, therapy, lots of prayer and concerned attention of family and friends.

When I have those flashbacks that capture me like Dorothy's tornado, I feel slightly freaked out. My little one is so HERE now that I find it unbelievable that such a short time ago she was a blink away from not being. Truth be told, I was a blink away from not being.

My little one is so here. She came out of the womb swinging a sparkly purse and matching shoes.  I knew she was her own when she snubbed a pair of low bright Red Chuck Taylor for pink and white cross trainers with just the slightest hint of bling.

Today on our way to the mall, in an effort to grab some quiet, I told my kids that I had a stomach ache. My middle man - Q asked me, "Mom, can people die from illness?"
"Yes. Yes they can." I replied simply. On topics like death I let him direct the course of the conversation. I waited for his response.
But it wasn't Q who spoke next. It was Noelle. With an understated sadness she stated, "My sister died." I didn't respond. I didn't turn my head or peek in the rear view.  She was stating for the first time what she understood about her sister.   Although I kept my eyes on the road, I could feel the exchange between my three children. Jon, my oldest (the first to tell her about her sister), turned to her and sighed softly "Yes Noelle, we know." I could feel Q nod in agreement behind me and we all sat at the red light silent. I peeked, Noelle was looking off towards the window, her curly hair vibrating in sync with our car's rough idle. I could look at her forever. Noelle is tangled in my soul in a way no other human is. We shared and lost so much together.

I still have another little one. Although it has been close to 5 years, her little shadow follows Noelle about. There are times when I catch a glimpse like when Noelle puts her cheek on mine and whispers an achingly genuine, "Have a good sleep mommy." I imagine two kisses. From my heart I hear an echo.

Epipihany # 2 - Joy Makes the Hard Tolerable

2011-04-06T13:26:00.000-04:00

I had another epiphany related to my "My Funny Valentine" moment. It is this:

Doing what you love produces joy and joy makes the hard times easier to endure.

The night I went with my friend to the jam session, I got home every late. Who knew it was daylight savings time? I had a speaking gig the next morning and as I was tightening up my presentation, my computer crashed. I ended up staying up all night doing a total rewrite. The following morning I did my presentation exhausted and a little hyper. I knew it wasn't my best, but I still managed to get some good feedback.

Directly after my presentation, my 6 year old son had a severe, inexplicable asthma attack. It has never happened before and although we are taking every precaution, I have the sense that it will not happen again. But that is another story. Naturally, we had to race him to the hospital where he was treated for almost 7 hours. It was a hard, hard day - but when I went to sleep late that night after having been up for about 36 hours, I was still happy. My son was fine, but I knew he would be when he called his ER Dr. over to his bedside and demanded an x-ray for his arm that fluctuated between being paralyzed and broken. He then told the whole family that he had tricked not just "mama" but the ER Dr. into believing that he had a broken arm. Quentin made even the ER fun.

That night as my overly exerted and hyper body tried its best to wind down, the memory of singing "My Funny Valentine" suddenly overtook all the tension and anxiety. I settled into what I can only call a calming joy. It is the joy that happens when your mind is racing with all the worries and anxiety and suddenly you relive a moment that causes you to smile. That one memory or moment just makes everything else - not easy by any means - but tolerable.

It's so hard to have fun and do what you love when you have a family, a home, a job and only 24 hours to the day. Not only do we deserve to do what we love and have fun, we need it. I realized it the day of Q's asthma attack. Thank God the night before was so special to me, because I really think I would have wearied in the well-doing if I didn't have that soft moment to buffer the difficulty.

My Ephiphany of Fun

2011-03-30T19:25:00.000-04:00

Since the very beginning of this year, I have had several unusually chaotic and overly stressful weeks. At any given time it seemed, someone was sick, a deadline was looming or any manner of crisis was trying to rear it's ugly head. It was tough few weeks, but I made it through unscathed, and my little family doesn't seem to be any worse for the wear.

What's more, I actually emerged from those tough weeks somewhat happier, more peaceful and feeling as though things were still happening for me. It's amazing, because to a certain extent - that is not me. I am a secret pessimist. Yet, these days, despite my bouts of stress, my messy home and the calendar I cannot seem to manage, I am doing well and really sensing that life is as it should be.

My first epiphany - or life discovery of the year is this.

Before I start - let me disclaim - this is my discovery for today. Next week I may be a miserable sobbing heap questioning the validity of it all. Epiphany #1:

The more fun I have - the less pressure I put on myself
The less pressure I put on myself -the more productive I am
The more productive I am - the more I achieve.

Here is my take on this revelation: When you are having fun - fear is not as much of an issue. In the midst of your joy you find yourself doing those things that you were previously to worked up, stressed or just plain scared to do.

I actually went to a jam session - invitation courtesy of a close friend of mine. I was a 40 something in the midst of talented 20 somethings and had the nerve to take my guitar and play. The last time I did something like that was over 25 years ago, when I used to frequent jam sessions and coffee houses. Well, I was a mess. My guitar playing was just...sad. I was self-conscious and anxious when I started, but by time I finished playing, all embarrassment and anxiety had gone. So much so that the next thing I knew, I was standing next to a piano in a house I had never been, surrounded by musicians and singers I didn't know, singing My Funny Valentine for the very first time. A song I love and know so well it's a part of my DNA. I sang with my eyes closed and hand over my heart. I sang it as if it I was alone in a room with just the pianist and my husband. I don't know what everyone else felt while in those moments as I sang. For me, those were four beautiful moments.

I'm gonna do it again...real soon.

Why Does Life Get in the Way of Living?

2011-03-15T21:40:00.000-04:00

Life gets in the way sometimes doesn't it? Particularly for us mamas. Right? You make your plans, you set your schedule and get to accomplishing your goals and aspirations.  I am talking about the goals we establish in addition to maintaining our households and raising healthy happy kids. These goals may not be as lofty as world peace and a cure for the common cold, but they are significant to us. What we really want for ourselves may be as simple as losing 20 pounds or showing up to Yoga or Pilate's on a regular basis (and on time).  Then there are times in our lives where our aspirations are as complex as starting a business, jumping into the world of dating or launching a new career. The thing is - no matter what we "plan"  there is always the potential that life will jump in the way and we get a little sidetracked.

I think that is the story of my life. For instance the last time we "met" I mentioned that I was going to be working on upgrading my blog. This meant writing at least twice a week and connecting with all my blogger peers and friends on a daily basis.  Well that was about two months ago. Need I say more? I think not. So what happened?    Life.

Herniated discs, asthma attacks, hospital visits, swollen lips and faces, school admissions, 504 meetings, board meetings, speaking gigs, crashed computers and the everyday regular mom stuff.    My writing, my blog, my web store and everything else that I had so carefully planned out at the beginning of the year got laid to waste in my busy-ness. I can't remember a time when my days were similarly filled with such hectic movement from the moment I woke up to when I went to bed at night. There were moments when I felt the weight of my life hang heavily on me. There were a couple of evenings when I stood at the stove making dinner with Noelle underfoot and Quentin crying about something and Jon asking me the same question over and over again, that I felt like I was being pile driven into floor. Each cry, each question, each tug at my pants leg or waistband seemed like an extra weight being added to my already exhausted and weary shoulders. I was carrying my world on my shoulders and it tired, frustrated and empowered me. Sounds crazy and backwards I know.

So many nights of the last few weeks I lay awake, unable to sleep with my mind racing at top speed, trying to work out my conflicted and confusing feelings. I was irked beyond belief many nights at the days events - but was strangely satisfied and fulfilled. Despite my unfinished articles, neglected web store and out-dated blog.

There is something to be said about carrying the weight of the world, when it's your world your carrying. I wasn't doing anything I didn't want to do. I wasn't writing and working on things I could care less about. I wasn't spinning my wheels producing for other people.  I was spending my energy on taking care of my husband, my children, and serving the communities and people I care about. How can I feel bad about that?

I can't say that things aren't busy, but certain aspects of life have slowed to reasonable chaos.  So here I am back at my blog, working on my website and even laying around a bit. These last few weeks have made me realize that it may take me a little longer to achieve my goals - but I am hanging strong with my new year's resolution and my new motto.

Just keep going!

Regaining Clarity - I Know What I am Supposed to be Doing...

2011-01-20T16:22:00.000-05:00

In October I posted, "What the Hell am I Supposed to be Doing?" and allowed those willing a little peek inside my slightly jumbled mind. I re-read a portion of that post today and must admit I was a little shocked at how much I understood about what was going on with me despite my insanity. I confessed in the post that by not writing my morning pages, I was simply having a temper tantrum. I also noticed that after I made the admission, I dropped the subject and moved onto something else.

Writing my morning pages is an activity that I started when I went through the The Artist's Way program developed by Julia Cameron. I may discuss the specifics of the program another time, but the main assignment is to write three pages in the morning before you do anything else.

Writing my morning pages quickly became a sacred act for me. It is my form of prayer and meditation; a way for me to connect with God and to sort out the complexities of my issues. It wasn't sacred because of religiosity or some insatiable need to be deep. My morning ritual became sacred because I released my obsession to be censor, editor and critic as I wrote.    Contained in the pages of that red pleather journal were the truths of my life. And I believe even in the everyday, the unimaginative and mundane, truth is aways sacred.

I have no illusions about why I stopped writing so completely or so quickly. The more truthful I became about myself, the more I realized that my life was radically changing. Suddenly the topic of my prayers -the realization that the vision that I have always had for my life was within reach. No longer just possible, but inevitable.  I was actually going to have a happy fulfilled life. The concept, when fully absorbed was terrifying. Experiencing sustained satisfaction was uncharted territory for me. I thought that somewhere along the way, there were going to be dues that I had to pay, that the rug is going to be pulled out from under me. Instead of waiting for the big cosmic joke, I sabotaged myself. That way the fates, the devil, or life in general wouldn't have to intervene to keep me in my place.

I stopped writing my pages and immediately slipped into an angry funk and felt overwhelmed with all I had to do. Actually, I slipped into an angry funk because I was overwhelmed with all I wasn't doing.   I lost my confidence and fell into the old habit of second-guessing and doubting myself at every turn.  I still refused to write. Except for the occasional blog, I was hardly writing anything at this point. Under the surface, I knew that feeling unfulfilled, anxious and dissatisfied was more comfortable for me, even though it made me miserable and crazy. I didn't admit this fact until I wrote "Is My Life Enough?", and openly questioned my ability to be happy if I failed at all I wanted and desired.  After I wrote that - I knew I had to start my routine again finally made the decision to do it.

The second I put pen to paper, I re-gained my clarity. All the doubt and confusion seemed to evaporate the more I wrote. The things that had been troubling me didn't seem so troubling. I was no longer the victim of a self-imposed creative drought.   I still don't write everyday, and not always the recommended three pages, nut I am doing it, gaining momentum and feeling good about myself again - correction, feeling myself again. The old adage is true - absence does make the heart grow founder. My happy self isn't doomed after all...

Keep going and lighten up.

Illness and Mama Paranoia

2011-01-19T01:18:00.001-05:00

Noelle was sick over the Christmas and New Year's break. It was the most ill she had been since birth. It was the forth or fifth night of her having a fever, she was suffering from a upper respiratory infection and was having trouble sleeping. She called for me in the middle of the night and asked for some ice water. It had been some time since we cleaned her room, so toys, dolls, and Lego's are everywhere, making it necessary for me to tread carefully across the tiny floor to her bed.

Her nightlight, a little white and pink feathered desk lamp in the shape of a dress form , was glowing slightly orange. Her lullaby music was playing softly on repeat and Noelle, already a skinny minny, had lost weight and was almost hidden from view under her fluffy pink covers. I pulled some of the blankets off and mentioned to her that she was too hot to be so bundled up. She reached shakily for her orange sippy cup which I am sure makes everything taste like plastic, and took a few sips of her ice water. When she finished, she handed me her cup. I perched it on the roof of her blue and pink dollhouse which we use as a make ship night table. I kissed her told her she had more medicine to take and as I kicked my way through her toys, I felt this inexplicable, monumental nervousness rising from my gut to my chest, ending between my temples. I tried to shake it off, but I found myself emotionally stranded in the NICU where she spent the first 72 nights of her life with no assurance she would live. I actually felt tears coming while I measured out her thick yucky medicine into one of those tiny cups. I felt almost insane by the overwhelming paranoia I was experiencing. In my core, I knew she would be OK. We had been to her Dr's office. twice, the final visit ended with the Dr. remarking that I was doing all the right things and sometimes these sorts of things just hang on.

But this was Noelle, always happy, always talking, always telling me that she was OK, even with her previous bouts of illness, Noelle would simply say, "I'm not feeling that well mommy, but I'll be OK."

"Noelle." I called softly, she turned and looked at me, puffy eyes and sad little face, "Why don't you come sleep in my bed tonight?" I gave her the sticky blue medicine. Afterwards Noelle shakily laid back down without answering my question.

"Why don't you come and sleep in my bed?" I repeated in her ear as I rubbed her back. She turned her head partially to look back at me. "I don't want to." She stated. Whined actually. I was shocked and for a moment speechless, as she never turned down any opportunity to cuddle next to me. My heart raced as I thought about leaving her alone. I couldn't do it.

Before I knew it, I had retrieved my pillow, was scooting her over and slipping into her little twin bed. I had to be there with her. Usually, when I get the mama paranoia, I am able to shake it off and go back to my normal routine. I know all parents feel the "mirror to the nose" paranoia at one time or another. For years, if none of my children woke me up during the night, I would wake up and go check to see what was wrong. This night was a little different, the paranoia - the fear was so...gripping. All I could do to alleviate it was to make the decision to stay awake all night long to be with her.

When I slipped in next to her, Noelle instinctively slid her body into the curve of mind. She grabbed my hand and pulled it to her breast. It was one of those gestures that made me acutely aware of how I deeply I love her. One of those moments where I could not believe she was mine. My baby, my daughter, my love. She tapped her thumb on the side of my hand. It calmed me. Within seconds she fell asleep and I focused on the warmth of her now relaxed hand, her little body which perfectly aligned with mine, and the rise and fall of her chest. Just for an instant, Noelle was back in the safety of my womb. We were in complete synchronicity, I was aware of her everything; we were linked mentally physically and spiritually. It was just the two of us breathing together in the dark of her messy room.

After about three hours, I got up, gingerly slipped my pillow from under her head and made my way back to my own bedroom. I crawled in bed with my husband and was soundly asleep in seconds. All was well.

It's That Time of Year Again!

2011-01-07T21:43:00.001-05:00

It's that time again. The beginning of January. Resolution time! Or not.

Many people do not make resolutions because of the self-disappointment they feel when they "fail". I have lived that cycle of disappointment many times over. I would give myself a beat-down the instant I fell off whatever wagon I was riding. I beat myself up so badly that when my wagon made its way around again, I couldn't bring myself to hop on again. For a couple of years I met January and other goal oriented times with a rousing "Why Bother!"

December 31st @ 11:59: Resolve to lose 10 pounds. Going to get in shape and be healthy! Whoo hoo!
January 1st @ 7:00am: Alarm rang - got up and rode bike for 20 minutes. Drank a glass of water.
January 1st @ 12:00pm: Ate a salad with grilled chicken. No dressing. Drank a glass of water.
January 1st @ 7:35pm: Ate curly fries and two pieces of homemade cheesecake. Drank milkshake.
January 1st @ 7:36pm: Remember that I suck and it was a stupid resolution anyway.
January 1st @ 7:37pm: Eat another piece of cheesecake out of depression and self-loathing.
January 2nd @ 7:00am: Turned off alarm watched the Today Show.

My problem wasn't from eating the curly fries and cheesecake. My problem was letting that Mean Girl voice capture and convince me to give up.

I recently found an old collage I created years ago. Many of my goals were listed along with pictures and quotes. I had forgotten all about it. I was absolutely shocked at how much I had accomplished. We get much more done than we think and we are much further along than we think.

My plan this year is to write down all the things that I want to accomplish. Go for broke. It will be good because behind all my plans and goals are my true resolutions.
1) Keep going. 2) Lighten up.

Is My Life Enough?

2010-12-16T17:05:00.000-05:00

I have recently gotten over first a bout of bronchitis and most recently pneumonia. I felt awful. They type of awful where what you really want to do is ask God just to end it all.

I was in pretty bad shape for almost two weeks and while I was still recovering two weeks later, I found myself depressed and at the 7/11 buying lotto tickets. It was as if I went to bed on one night feeling pretty good about myself and woke up the next morning feeling like an utter failure and the only thing that could rescue me was to win millions.  Physically I was back to my normal routine, but I still felt totally out of sync. On this particular morning I had to co-op at my daughter's school and had to be there early. From the moment the alarm rang my boys just couldn't get their act together. It was one of those "let's not listen to mommy" days. After some screaming and throwing things, my boys finally got around to seeing things my way, but I was already late. On the drive in to the school, Noelle was talking a mile a minute, to the point where I begged her to Puhleeze be silent for a few minutes. "Sure Mommy" she replied cheerfully. She actually gave me a good 45 seconds before she started talking again and I just burst into silent tears.

Nothing seemed to be going right. You know how it is when you are lacking sleep and not eating right - at some point your defenses get so low physically and emotionally that even the normal hiccups become monumental.   My being late just took me over the edge, but the real issue was the fact that I did not finish nanowrimo, the writing a novel in a month campaign. I had started strong, but getting sick took all the "write" out of me and I just couldn't finish. Also this is the best time of year for my business and I have literally done nothing to capitalize on it at all. To say the least I was down in the dumps.
I hung on to my mood for about three days. On my last day of misery, I was folding clothes on my bed when the thought hit me that I could actually die without having achieved any of the things I wanted. I know - it's a morbid thought - but a very realistic one that I am sure many women share.   So as I sat sorting socks, I pondered Frank Capra style what would happen if I never actually fulfilled my dreams. I would eventually shut down my business, never finish a novel, never find a way to help other women, and live the rest of my life in a mediocre apartment. It was then that a question popped out of nowhere.

"When it's all over, would you be satisfied knowing you were a good person and lived a good life?"

I stopped mid-fold. My thoughts turned from my perceived failures to all that I had. I have great friends who sent me Thanksgiving in a box, and a wonderful family, including a sister I spend way too much time talking to on the telephone. Although things can be tight financially - we don't lack anything. I am not crazy about my apartment and want to live in a single family home once again, but I am still surrounded with things I love and that inspire me. I have my babies and my husband, the most important aspects of my life. We are a happy, healthy and loving family and I do everything that I can to be the best person I can be. My daily goal is to live from the perspective that Jesus illustrated when he said, "Love thy neighbor as thyself."

So after I thought about those things the question came again, slightly different. "Is it enough? Is your life enough?"

"Of course it is." I answered immediately having to look no further than my life with my husband, who truly loves me just as I am and always makes space for me to be and grow.  And then, I have these kids. My love and connection to them is so great that sometimes it as though their hearts still beat inside me.
It that enough? Yes.

And no. There is a place in me, a potential in me that I have not fulfilled.  I think with every project, every new idea that I get excited about, every assignment I take on is simply my attempt to find the inspiration that will cause that potential to erupt, and flow out as it should.  I do not know what that is going to take. What I realize is that I cannot hold on relentlessly to what I think my success should look like. It is the pressures and expectations I put on myself that cause the disappointment. My husband wrote me a letter on my teary day, where he gave me some great advice that I three days later I decided to take. He said, "Just keep going."

I am grateful that every time that I find myself in the dumps, something always brings me back to reality and reminds me that life is pretty good. In the meantime, I will just keep doing what I love and I am confident when my life is all over and done with I will be totally satisfied. I just need to keep going.

Being Super Organized!

2010-11-04T11:36:00.000-04:00

Photo from Style/Swoon @ http://www.styleswoon.com/

I am the type of person that loves neatness and order. I feel relaxed and more at ease when I walk into a nice, clean and well organized environment. Bathrooms should be sparkling, there should be no crumbs on tables and countertops and in each room everything should have its place. Organization is super important to me as well. I like everything calendared and planned out carefully. When you have 3 young children, you really can't fly by the seat of your pants. If you do, critical things get lost and remain undone.

I like my family being on a schedule and love being able to know exactly what comes next at any given time during the day. I hate wasting time surfing the net and watching TV for hours on end. I mean it just makes such a difference and you discover hidden time!

The problem is this - my house is not neat and orderly. I mostly feel tense and behind the eight-ball, especially when I walk into my living room that usually has crap strewn about. Most days I run around like the proverbial chicken with their head cut off looking for things that should be easy to find. I freak out when I see pee all over the bathroom seats and when I have to dust crumbs off the placemats so my kids can eat at a clean table. I have three young children and feel as though I am more than flying by the seat of my pants. My husband, who is probably reading this right along with you is laughing I am sure. Particular at my love of everything being in its place.

The kids stick to a pretty good schedule, but that is what happens when you have school aged- children. My son dresses himself and sometimes its too late for me to make him change when I notice that he has been wearing the same shirt for the last three days. I can only pray that he has changed his underwear. He does however shower and wash everyday - so that is good. Unfortunately the same cannot be said of my middle man. He has to pass a sniff test everyday.

How is it that the vision of my life is so so very far from reality? Am I unreasonable in my desires, or do I just need the right magic combination of action and inspiration? I see books lined up on the shelves of libraries and bookstores claiming to have the fix for household dis-organization and general discombobulation. I have bought and borrowed a million of these books and spent countless hours surfing the net for help and advice. Is it a sham! Sometimes I wonder if these books are written by OCD-ers where cleaning a way of alleviating their own tension and stress. There is a rumor going around (started by my therapist) that I have a touch of OCD - unfortunately my version is limited to my acting more like Jack Nicholson in "As Good As It Gets", then being obsessive about organization and cleanliness. Perhaps these books are written by people who like to write books and just picked organization as a topic. Where are the writer moms like me - who really want some organization that sticks and just kinda figured it out. Is there a secret?! I guess I am more obsessed with wanting my home to look and operate a certain way, than actually having it that way. If it was a true desire, wouldn't I be able to accomplish it? Where is the disconnect between all my lists, schedules and budgets that I put so much time into creating and actually springing into action?!?

Should I lower my expectations and be satisfied with what is at this time? Sigh...truth be told, if I made enough money I would hire Alice from the Brady Bunch. I would have a nanny and someone to do laundry and clean the kitchen. I can still be the best mom and wife in the world without ever having to wash another pair of not so tidy whiteies or clean another toilet in my life. However, it is what it is while it is, so until I win the lotto or get my NanoWrimo novel published to score big bucks - I will keep searching for the secret. Not for the "how to". After all my research I know HOW. I am searching for the secret of the "DO". How do I get off my a$% and do?

About the photo: No - this is not my living room. but I find it appealing. This room was featured on a blogpost @ StyleSwoon which is a great site that I discovered. For all you style lovers check it out.

What the Hell am I Supposed to be Doing?!!?

2010-10-26T21:13:00.001-04:00

I have a confession.   Lately, my mind has been a massive, cluttered, jumbled mess. So much so that I am beginning to feel it in my body with mystery aches and pains coupled with the familiarity of not sleeping. When I slow down and try to have a peaceful meditative moment, my brain feels like a brick, with its edges rubbing against the inside of my head. I need a retreat. Somewhere clean and orderly with scents of vanilla and eucalyptus where there are no sounds of little voices or knocks at the door. A place that has a deep smooth bathtub with no nemo or barbie toys to be seen. That's what I need.

Here's the deal, I have not written anything in weeks, with the exception of my blogs. I have not even been doing my "pages" in the morning which help me remain grounded and inspired throughout the day. The funny thing, I know that there is an immature internal temper tantrum happening. My inner self is saying, " I don't wanna." because things are not really going my way. It's like when I am really angry at my son - my middle man. He sometimes goes crazy and just screams like a mad man. I hate it. If I am not on my toes, we end up in a ridiculous power struggle and you know what they say, once you enter in a power struggle with your kid, you have already lost the battle. Sometimes in the midst of his cryings, he will look up at me with those huge tears and say, "Mommy, if you sing to me I will feel better."

Sounds sweet right? Well it's not, and I "don't wanna", especially after he has just been screaming at the top of his lungs, or repeating the same thing over and over and over again.  The thing is, my son knows that once I have him in my lap and start to sing, then I will calm down and not be so angry. That's how I feel about writing. I don't want to do my pages because I know it will calm me down when what I want is to be mad at life. Being mad at life is so much easier these days than actually deciding what to do with my life.  Which leads me to my problem - what the hell I am supposed to be doing?!

My gut is telling me it is time to buckle down and get to some serious long format writing. Initially, I was confident that my memoir project would be the best place to start. Now, I am not so sure. I started a novel several years ago which is still taking up creative residence in this already cluttered mind of mine.  All of a sudden I have been thinking a great deal about the characters, the plot, the tone - everything. I can see the landscape of my novel, the characters moving about. I can even see what they are wearing and how they function in the little world I created years ago.  This sudden development is throwing a wrench in my plans. I didn't want to work on my novel. I didn't want to go back to fiction. I have not written fiction since well before my pregnancy with Noelle. The funny thing is, prior to that experience, all I considered myself to be was a novelist. My life has just taken such a turn...and I feel strongly about writing my experience. Or am I avoiding something?

Do I work on the novel that has been trapped in my mind for years? Do I start the memoir project which will require research and dredging up the past? I also have a online store to run and a continuing job search, not to mention my children and husband. I know myself - if I write this novel I will become hyper-focused and obsessed...can I afford to do that right now? Ugh! I know...I know - I should just shut-up, pack up the temper tantrum and just get to work!

The Homework Monster.

2010-10-23T12:59:00.000-04:00

A friend of my mine going by the name of Partly Sunny, recently blogged about the entire "homework" issue. It is a great blog and I highly recommend reading it. It just brought up so many feelings about my own childhood and how much I hated school and homework. It's been on my mind since, so I thought I would write about my first homework memory. I do not remember all of the details, what I do remember is somewhat stuttered and to be honest I have banished memories of elementary school into the nether regions of my brain. Unfortunately they are flying back to the forefront as my kids journey through thier own school experience. Thank God they LOVE school. But this homework thing - yuk - it is again raising its ugly head.

At least I can pinpoint where my personal hatred started, not that it helps.

I had fuzzy ponytails with acrylic yarn bows. My too small socks kept creeping down into my shoes. As always I was wearing some sort of unfortunate plaid, and I am sure my knees were ashy.  Obviously I wasn't quite as pulled together as the other kids, but ot was an important day; a big deal of a project was due.    I know it was a big deal because we had to stand in the front of the classroom and present to everyone.  I must admit, I don't have any memories of doing the assignment; no name or the topic comes to mind, but I do remember it was a carefully written short story (very short story) in my black and white marble notebook.  My chest was full of excitement. I remember feeling proud as I practiced reading aloud. I was ready to do my thing and astound everyone with my wit and creativity. By time I was 8 I knew I was a writer.

I was really into my preparations, when this girl, one of the "bad" girls, specifically the leader of the "bad" girls asked to see my story. I reluctantly showed it her and she swiftly snatched it from me. I watched in horror as she copied my story word for word.   I said nothing. I was one of those shy scared types (well. let's say I started out that way) and was not only afraid the girl was going to beat me down, I was scared to tell the teacher.

I remember feeling paralyzed and terrified as the teacher started calling each presenter. I think bad girl went first. Of course the teacher was impressed with my work and gave her a big hand. Unfortunately I was called next and walked to the head of the classroom like I was walking to the electric chair. I stood at the front of the class with me legs tightly pressed together. I was an occasional pant pee-er and was trying my best to avoid a scared puppy fiasco. I looked down at the story which in minutes went from being my pride to my shame.  A symbol of my weakness. If I had just told bad girl "No", or found the MIA teacher, I would still feel good about my accomplishment.

I read the story, painfully repeating every single work that had just been recited.  Immediately I was in trouble. There was no investigation, no questioning, just a humiliating reprimand for the two of us as we stood in the front of class. Bad girl could have cared less, she was frequently in trouble. I was never in trouble so I was mortified and extremely pained, especially when I slipped the note to my parents into my bookbag.

So here I am many years later, and my hatred of homework is rising again. Every day my two boys come home with massive amounts of paper the teacher doesn't want cluttering her classroom. Somewhere in all that copied crap are the homework assignments.  Everyday we go through the same after school routine, backpacks and shoes tossed on the living room carpet, the fridge door opening and closing a thousand times, and so TV time that ends with me making my "homework time" announcement.  Everyday my announcement is met with whining and pleading. At some point, usually after a threat of taking TV away altogether...they get to working. They finish, I check it, point out errors, ask the "is that all the homework you have" question and we move on.

This week my 8 year old came home with his first "E" and a note from his teacher saying that he did not turn in about half of his homework for the week. The "E" was for a literacy test - an open book literacy test at that.   As for the homework, it turns out my perfect 8 year old had been lying about the amount of homework and was not writing the assignments down on his homework calendar. As soon as the "E" emerged from the backpack the tears started. And they did not end until he was sent into his room to re-take the open book test. Did I mention the book was 4 pages long including front and back cover?   I felt like crying too - from sheer exhaustion.

My son does not realize that I hate homework more than he does. I hate all the paper that accumulates in my living room. I hate that my 6 year olds does not want to throw anything out, so I have to go through this whole ridiculous ritual of hiding the trash. I hate having to worry about grades and performance. I hate feeling like I do not know how to balance wanting them to be the best they can be with wanting them to scholastically perfect. Mostly I hate the fact that I am already worried that they will hate school like I did and underperform.  Homework has become a monster in our house that scares up every bit of anxiety I have about my children's education. I am trying very hard to follow the guidance of thier elementary school principal. "Lighten-up" she stated at the last PTA meeting. I am trying - but homework for me is just one big pile of YUK.

Happiness and Sorrow...It's October 9th.

2010-10-09T02:54:00.003-04:00

It is the 4th birthday of my lovely baby girl and the 4th anniversary of the day her sister died. I have been curiously anticipating this day for a few weeks now. Not in dread or anxiety - in wonderment of how I would feel. Is wonderment a word? It is 1:56 in the morning and if I am recalling correctly at this time 4 years ago I was given meds to stop my contractions after a long night of being poked and prodded by nurses and finally the Dr. on call, trying to monitor the twin's heartbeats.

The meds always made me jumpy and slightly anxious, and the stress of my evening caused some OCD to take hold. I remember not being able to keep myself from saying, "Rebbecca DeMornay...Rebbecca DeMornay." That sort of thing had never happened before or has happened since. It is one of the several memories that I will never forget.

I am sitting in my husband's office, which in reality is a curtained section or our living room, longing for the smile of my 4 year old little girl. Yesterday I asked her if she was always happy and she threw back her head with her curly nappy hair and openly laughed. "Yes!!" She shouted, still laughing as if I had asked her the most ridiculous question in the world. She is always happy. Always smiling...except when I have turned down a juice request or am not giving her the laser-like focus and attention she feels she deserves. Then she is whiny and attitud-ey. But she is one happy, lovingly generous "little bits". Before I finally go into my bedroom to sleep, I will slip into to peek at all my kids, but I always leave her for last...

I am trying to gauge how I am feeling. Overall, I am good. But I realize that the sadness I feel at my core has been trying to express itself and I just have not let it. Not for fear of my emotions - the depression, the deep pain and desolation has been gone for a long time now. It's just that I don't want to cry but I can sense by the itching of my eyes that the tears are merely waiting for access. I think I am no longer sure of why I cry. The memory of the experience doesn't really hurt anymore. I can tell my stories and even re-live the moments, but I am free from the despair. I am healed and I am thankful for it. Sometime I marvel after I tell parts of my story or write about the experience in my blog, at how strongly people react, often offering their deepest condolences and expressing how sad it all is. It always surprises me and I foolishly worry that I am somehow coming across as a sad broken lady in my writing. Sadness and brokenness are the far from the truth of who I am these days. I am not perfect, but I am OK and that in itself is a phenomena that I could never have predicted.

So why do I feel like crying...I didn't know Lauren the way I know Noelle. I have never heard her laugh, felt her breath on my neck or seen the funny in her smile. Do I feel like crying because that will never be my reality? That's a very valid reason, but its not mine. For some reason I know that. I feel like crying because the part of me that knows her - misses her and even though it has been 4 years that still astounds me.

I feel blessed and short-changed all at the same time. I am so grateful for the transformation of my life and all that my experience has produced, but would trade it all for a moment of time with my baby. A part of me cherishes every memory while wishing it never happened because at the end of the day I am still without her. Sometimes I can't bear the thought that pain will never go away because that truth will never change.

For weeks I saw and heard her little heartbeat, I saw those little jerky movements...I could lay my hand on my huge warm belly and know she was there. Towards the end I thought she was safe. I was relieved and thought we were out of the woods and then she was gone.

Anyway, today I wish that she was either here or just gone from my memory...because today, its all too much. Today, she is too real. She is too - not here. Too gone. Like when someone attempts to walk with the leg that has been taken away. It makes you a little crazy because you know it should be there - but its not.

And although it is not an everyday thought - although my life is so wonderful and happy - I will NEVER feel as though it is OK that she is not here. This is my worst blessed day, because with every candle Noelle blows out....every part my heart and my body aches for the one who is missing.

I am crying. I am going to stop writing, go lay down next to my husband and let him hug the pain away, and when I wake up, I am going to have the best day possible with the three babies that are here with me on this side of life.

The Things I Remember About the Days Before Kids.

2010-10-02T01:16:00.003-04:00

This evening my husband and I had the fantabulous pleasure of attending an outdoor movie at our sons' elementary school. They were showing Pixar's "Up" which I have been wanting to see. Because of all the rain this week the movie was going to be inside. It was not. I looked at my husband and said, "If I knew we were going to be sitting outside in the dark, I would have never done my hair and put all this make-up on."  In actuality my hair was only half done and my make-up consisted of lip gloss and a ton of concealer to hide the circles under my eyes. At any rate, I am sure you can get a sense of my mood.

The kids wanted snow cones. They were so insistent that my husband got up from his seat to stand in the wrap-around line for the "concession stand", which consisted of a lone popcorn machine standing on a banquet table next to two red ice coolers. When he came back he informed our children that they didn't have snow cones. They were devastated. I do not know why, as it turned out the snow cones were a figment of their collective imaginations.  Somehow they decided amongst themselves that there was going to be snow cones.

The 15 minutes Daddy waited in line was not a total loss, he came back with two Pepsis. But no snacks, so the novelty of soda at nightime wore off quickly. Yours truly went to the concession stand to get popcorn and ended up standing in line for over an hour.  As it turned out the rented popcorn machine only popped about 4 small bags of popcorn at a time. There were about 300 people watching the movie, so you can imagine. What?..Why did I stand there that long? Well, because I was tired. I didn't feel like walking to my seat.

I made it back in enough time to catch the last 7 minutes or so of the movie and as I looked up at the inflatable movie screen while hosting a six year old on one leg and a 4 year old on the other, I realized how much my life had changed. Here I was with half done hair and makeup, sitting on a damp busted up folding chair in the wet night air. I was watching a feature length cartoon, eating crappy popcorn, carrying 60 extra pounds of weight on my legs and trying not to sneeze from the dusty picnic blanket my son was wearing superman style. 10 years ago, on a Friday night of my choice, I would have been hanging with my husband at a great restaurant or bar-n-grille looking good and eating well.

As I took another bite of my unsalted, butter free, slightly dry popcorn - my mind lingered on all the things I remembered about my days without children. I thought I would share. Here is my list of the things I remember about the days before kids:

Shrugging and saying, "Sure - why not" when my husband asked if I wanted to go to a movie. At 10:00pm.
Never having to eat at McDonald's.
Waking up at11:00am on the Saturdays I chose to get out of bed at all.
Eating ice-cream for dinner.
Walking around butt-naked.
Walking around barefoot.
Walking across the living room floor without stepping on video game cases.
Not having to pick up a toothbrush from off the bathroom floor, every single day.
Not having to buy chicken nuggets in bulk.
Cussing.
Not having to tell a 7 year old that, "What the Hell!" is a bad thing to say.
Not having to tell that same 7 year old when he is 8 years old not to say, "Dammit!" because he lost "Go Fish".
Not having to lie to husband and say, " I don't know where he gets that language from!"
Not knowing what "Sprout" is.
Not knowing what it feels like stepping on Legos.
Not caring that Katy Perry looked like a vintage hooker on Sesame Street while knowing that was the look she was going for.
Having nothing to do at 7:00pm
Coming home from a hard day and just flopping on the bed and waking up in the same position the next morning.
Not needing superhero hearing and eyes in the back of my head.
Not leaning over to smell someone's butt.
Not having the Doodlebops theme song memorized.
Always knowing the location of the remote.
Always having keys on my computer.
Not having to tell a two year old to "spit my computer keys out!"
Not having to explain to the nice Pakistani man on the Dell Hotline why your two day old laptop has 20 missing computer keys.
Not knowing what it feels like to love someone so much it makes you want to cry.
Not knowing what it feel like when someone shouted " I love you Mom" at the top of their lungs in the middle of an outdoor movie.
Not knowing how funny it is to accidentally be given the finger instead of a thumbs-up.
Not knowing what is is to have a mini-me.
Not knowing how funny it is to hear your mini-me say to your husband, "What nice french tips you have!" because she heard it on TV.
Not knowing how it feels to promise your 6 yr old you will absolutely move into his dorm room when he goes to college.
Not knowing what it is like to be on the receiving end of said 6 yr old's wrath when you attempt to explain why the two of you can't get married.
Not knowing that your 8 year old would host the sun in his smile.
Never being surpised to feel tiny kisses on your elbow.
Never hearing, "You are the best mom ever!" just because.
Never having to do a google search for "super sonic vs. eggman pics"
Not being surprised at your son's art show and see that his featured piece is entitled, "Big Head Daddy."
Not knowing what it is to want to die instead of your baby.
Not knowing what it means to be sitting outside in the damp night air, next to your highly irritated husband, watching a movie you can't hear, having your legs fall asleep because of 60 extra pounds, eating dry unsalted, un-buttered popcorn and thinking in your head, "This is the freakin' best!!!! How lucky am I?!"
Not knowing what it means to run home to your computer and share it all with the world.

Everyday I am shocked at the realization that I have 3 young kids. And everyday I can't imagine my life without them.

Living Honestly: The True Measure of Success

2010-09-30T01:33:00.001-04:00

I am in the process of developing a workshop series that I plan to present to women in the DC area.  The idea was conceived after my first public speaking engagement shortly after the loss of one of my twin daughters. It had been over two years since I had spoken before a group of people and I was very rusty to say the least, but my presentation seemed to resonated deeply with many people, especially women. The topic I presented was "Authenticity through Adversity" which was based on my own experiences dealing with grief and depression. I discovered that being authentic and honest during a tragedy or crisis is the only real way to process through. It sounds simple, but it is easier said than done. Especially after a death, where there may be expectations associated with how and when to "get over it". I learned so much about myself during my grief and loss that after I recovered from the depression, I felt stronger and more confident about myself. The workshops will give me an opportunity to share my experiences with other women and to be able to hear their stories.

My next presentation is called, "Living Honestly: The True Measure of Success" and I would love to hear from my fellow bloggers and commentors. First, let me explain the premise of my topic and then issue my request.

The Premise:
We get so caught up in the business of "doing" that we neglect the aspect of "being". We "do" what is needed. We "do" what we think is right or expected of us in the various roles we fulfill. Success is measured by our performance and ability to meet the needs of others. So much of our "do" is not rooted in who we are and it becomes easy to lose sight of our true qualities. Many times the lives we imagined and planned for ourselves and families fade into the background of our day to day existences.   Living honestly is about being truthful about who we are and what we really want out of life without feeling guilty.  We are practically conditioned to feel guilty when we prioritize our own needs. We erroneously equate self-care with selfishness. Recognizing who you are, understanding your gifts and talents and creating a lifestyle that inspires and cultivates your growth and development is what living honestly is all about and there is nothing selfish about it.

In my own life the "doing" was easier than the "being", because as long as I was moving from activity to activity, I didn't have to acknowledge my dissatisfaction with myself. When my pregnancy forced me to stop everything, I had to face the fact that no matter what I had (including a wonderful husband and children I adored) as long as I continued to bury my dreams and neglect cultivating and investing in myself, I was living a lie. Now I thank God that my circumstances showed me that life was short and I was wasting mine on things that meant nothing to me. In the last three years I have accomplished more than the previous fifteen. I have less money, live in a smaller space and no longer hold any titles - but I have never felt more successful than now, because I do what I love and have what I want. I write, I share and I have a healthy happy family.   And all I had to do to get here was live my honest life. Don't get me wrong, I am by no means a Pollyanna or a unrealistic warm and fuzzy type. Life is still a challenge for me and there are issues that I have to look at long and hard. The difference is the desperation is gone and in it's place is a true faith. I no longer feel as though I am swimming upstream. I honestly think that my life is good.

The Request:
Now that I have "talked" much more than I intended, I wanted to start a dialogue on what "living honestly" and "success" mean to you. I would love to hear about those moments when you felt you were "being" you as well as those moments when "living honestly" was just too hard.

I will not be reproducing or using your comments.  Hearing from other women is always inspiring and helpful. I am always amazed at how we are able to help each other by being just a little transparent.

My Disappointing Last Hurrah.

2010-09-22T11:54:00.001-04:00

One of the things you may not know about me is that I am a singer.  I have been singing for as long as I remember and it's one of my favorite things. It is also one of the things that I do best next to writing and believe it or not, sometimes I even get paid to do it!  I love all types of music and I have tried my hand at everything from straight up rock to hard core gospel. My all time favorite artists are Ella Fitzgerald and the Beatles. Yes - you heard right. Ella and the Fab Four. I also love Frank Sinatra and John Legend.

Although I sing all types of music, my bed and butter so to speak is Christian and inspirational music.  I have consistently been singing in church in one form of another for almost 20 years. It has been a long career from which I am retiring. I am at the point in my life where I know that my dream isn't to be a famous singer, and when I record my CD, it will be for the benefit of my friends and family. From now on, it will be about the fun of singing. I am making space to focus on what I truly feel "called" to which is my writing and speaking.

Sunday was my last day of my formal "career" singing for the church I also co-founded. It was my last hurrah, my shining moment, my final blaze of glory. We were celebrating our 4th Anniversary and had many visitors as well as an internationally known guest speaker. When I woke up that morning, I was excited and raring to go. I hummed my solo as I showered, fixed the kids breakfast, and drove to church. I was still "Ready Freddy" as the guests arrived and the welcome and introductions were made. I and my singing partner led the congregation in two songs that were not that great, but I still felt pretty good knowing my solo presentation was coming. I waited patiently to be called to the podium and after reaching the front, I gave a moving (or so I thought) introduction and started my song. My friend, our Pastor had recommended the song. It was in my key, was my style and the words resonated deeply with me.  In singing lingo, "I was going to tear it up!"

Surprisingly my voice was shaky and tired. I messed up the syncopation and phrasing, and flubbed the words...big time.  In my mind, the more I sang, the worse I sang. The only reason why I know I didn't completely suck is because several people complimented me on my performance. I assume they were not lying...at least not all of them. It didn't matter, I knew I was terrible.  However, I took the compliments with a nod and a smile.

Suck or no suck - I was disappointed. Actually, I was crushed. I could barely think about anything else for the remainder of the service and almost felt like crying as I ate my two pieces of reception cake. My husband kept trying to make me feel better by making jokes and reminding me that "it was all right". He wasn't there to hear my disaster - he had his own musical gig at another church. I wish he was there because although my husband is my biggest fan - he is completely honest. Real musicians, whether married or not - do not lie to each other. There is no, "Oh baby - you were GREAT!", but what he does provide is truthful productive insight, which I wish he was there to give. It took me hours to get over my disappointment. Let me confess, it took me over 72 hours. What's worse the song has been stuck in my head since. It is now Wednesday.

I realize that my disappointment was so great because I felt so prepared and so ready! So to go from such a "high" to such a "low" in one fell swoop was hard. I could not understand - could not wrap my head around how I could have messed up soooo badly on something I was so excited and confident about. To make matter's worse, Monday I received a rejection from a publication. It's not my first rejection, but it was a rejection of a piece that was very important to me. The disappointment was also greater coming right on the tails of my singing fiasco. It all made me wonder if I performed better when I was ambivalent. Why is it when I feel good about my work or excited and prepared I feel like I fail, and other times I throw it together and it's the cat's meow? I don't have the answer to that.

It's amazing how when we are not diligent in protecting ourselves, one relatively small disappointment can spiral into something that permeates so much more. I went from questioning my singing talent to my writing to my parenting skills. One bad song turned into my being a horrible mom. It is a testament that once the self bashing starts - its a slippery slope to unreasonable self-criticism.

Today is Wednesday, I am back in my right mind. I realize that it was one song in a line of several hundred. Some good, some bad, some awful. Even Whitney Houston has had her share of vocal issues - so if "The Voice" can keep plugging away in front of millions of people, I can get over a bomb in front of - well significantly less. Although I have officially retired from the ministry of singing, I haven't given up singing entirely. I couldn't do that anymore than I could give up my marriage or my beautiful children. Even those years where I stopped writing for myself and was feeling lost and uncertain of who I was, I still sang. It was the only form of true self expression I had left. I am simply making room for what I need to focus on during this season of my life. I will still have plenty of opportunity to redeem myself. However, this experience did make me realize that although disappointment happens to everyone, I still have some work to do ensuring that I keep a healthy perspective when I have to face it first hand.

That Time of the Year

2010-09-16T19:39:00.001-04:00

It’s that time of year for me. I am nearing the anniversary of Noelle’s birth and Lauren’s death. Every year it creeps up on me and I have to remind myself why I may be moving slower and am more introspective than usual. Overall, I am feeling pretty good, but the truth of the matter is I know my emotions are brewing. I can’t help wonder about what could have been as Noelle grows and changes. She is my big girl. Despite her little size, I finally have stopped thinking of her as a baby. Noelle is in school now. She goes to a great Cooperative Nursery School nearby and loves it. She doesn’t go every day, so on the mornings I tell her she is going to school she lets out a loud, “Yippeeee!” complete with fist pumping. This morning I felt a familiar emotional tug as I watched Noelle skip and twirl down the hallway of our apartment building towards the elevator. I marveled at how agile she was, how sure she was on her feet, and I couldn’t believe that she was going to be 4 in a matter of days.

I watch her black backpack with the pink and fuchsia hearts bounce up and down as she skips, I take it all in; her tiny curly ponytails with tiny bows, her skinny splotchy legs, and her sparkly sneakers, so worn down there is barely any sparkle left. “I must throw them out soon.” I think to myself. I happily gaze at her smile that is so broad it causes her eyes to squint. I catch that rare glimpse of myself.

Noelle reaches up to press the elevator button which she knows is way too high, when she can’t reach, she hunches her shoulders, feigns exhaustion and says with big dramatic breathes, “I…can’t….reach…it.” I press the button and she giggles. For a minute I see two. I see the shadow of Lauren behind her, and I can sense the presence of those sneaky, “what ifs…” They aren’t concrete thoughts, but I know they are there. Quietly I usher Noelle onto the elevator and wonder what it would be like trying to rustle identical twins around during the day. Would she cry when Noelle cries? Would they fight? Would they talk in unison or finish each other’s sentences? My older son insists that Lauren would be “nicer” than Noelle. I can’t help but wonder.

Around this time of year, I have learned to let myself be. Not try to over analyze how I am feeling at any given time. I have stopped beating myself up, adding more suffering on top of my sadness. It is what it is, while it is.

Working to Write

2010-09-01T21:21:00.000-04:00

I been away for a while, I know. I bet you want to know why, I have been working crazily on a new project. My project coupled with school starting for all three kids has kept me so busy, I have not posted. I have written, but not posted. So I guess you want to know about the project that has kept me so engaged. Well, I have been writing my resume. Yes, you heard it. My resume. I am going back to work.

I have been out of the work force for over 5 years and made a secret pact with myself that I would never go back.  I chalked my distaste of a 9 to 5 up to my being one of those artistic types whose creativity was stifled by the establishment.  I worked only because I had to pay the bills, nothing more.

So here I am five years later scouring online resources for jobs, working feverishly on my resume and dipping back into my network of working professionals. My decision to go back to work came suddenly. I was cleaning out an old email account and saw that a close friend sent me a job announcement.   Without a thought, I opened it and minutes later the decision was happily made.

I am a writer. A writer who only recently buckled down and started taking craft and career seriously.   I know that at first glance getting a job seems counter intuitive. How on earth can a traditional full time job fit into the life of a stay at home writer mom?   It actually makes just as much sense creatively as it does financially. It erases my  "create for pay" need.

Several months ago I registered as a freelance writer on a variety of sites. After picking the brains of many who went before me, I knew it was absolutely possible to bring in the income needed to help with our financial goals. So for several weeks I did my research, created my "desk profiles" and read the available assignments with great fervor.

It was after approximately 20 minutes of deep contemplation regarding approaching the opening of my first assignment that I realized I freelancing was not for me. When I could not think another second about the wonders of bedazzled flip-flops, when I confessed to myself that I simply could not do it.  I could not do it. I could not write for grocery money. I write what I write - when I write it.

At this stage of my game, I can no longer fit a square peg into a round hole. For me, freelancing is a round hole and I just don't fit. Many do fit, they fit well and I can see why.   I had to finally accept the nagging realization that I don't want to write other people's stuff - not even for money.  Being a freelancer, has NEVER been on my radar, but when I resigned myself to the fact that I had to bring in some real money, it seemed like a natural course. Well, it wasn't. My fleeting attempt at freelancing was another lesson for me in self expression and self awareness. Just as we writer mom have different parenting priorities, philosophies and styles, we also approach our craft differently. I am going back to work, so that I can write what I want when I want.  If I have to make money so that we can reach our finanical goals, it can't be writing other people's stuff.  It really throws a wrench into the works of my creativity and inspiration.
I have developed a writing life, an imperfect one, but disciplined in my own way. I am producing more than I ever have, and as I work and research, as I write and talk shop with others, I am getting better. My growth my not be in leaps in bounds due to poopy pants, allergy attacks and mis-scheduled Dr.'s appointments, but its there - I can see it and I can feel it. My goals make take a little longer to accomplish as I invest this time of my life into my family and household. But how long it takes matters less and less to me as I get older and the investment I am making is what gives me my inspiriation to create. Not just create, but to grow and be the writer I know I am.

Strangely enough, as time means less to me, I get more accomplished. Meaning, I get more done and I get better at what I do. More accomplished. I have let go of some of my writing "goals" and I have gotten down to the business of writing. I have also put the "what-ifs" of my writing in thier proper place, deciding not to deal with them before thier time.  I challenge myself to, "write the damn thing first, then do the mental gymnastics of who your publisher is going to be and how will you ever leave your kids for a book tour". Why start, "what-iffing" before you have even let your idea manifest into a finished product?

I have gone through so much drama in my life that my new idea of success has nothing to do with Oprah or the New York Times. I am successful as long as my peeps are happy and whole; people are reading and responding to what I write. I am seccessful as long as I am disciplined, but not obsessed; and I am creating a body of work that represents me. Yes, I look forward to the day when my work is flying off the Barnes & Noble shelves and people are asking me for submissions. But for right now, I am going to get a new desk job, pay off my debt, buy my house with the azalea filled yard and save for my babies college tuition, all the while knowing that I am a writer.

Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore

2010-08-09T21:54:00.001-04:00

I have made some big changes in my lifestyle. First and foremost, I am so OVER the phenomena of doing EVERYTHING for my boys. Somewhere along the line I ceased being CJ the mom and became Alice the maid. You know Carol Brady's Alice. She wore the light blue maid's uniform, dated Sam the butcher and sported a modified bouffant. I am not trying to offend Alice, she had a good deal going with the Bradys. At least she got a private room and a paycheck.

I would spend considerable amounts of time straightening up, arranging and organizing our living space, only for it to be torn up and in total disarray once my back was turned. I would freak...OUT. There would be massive amounts of tears with ample apologies, some of which came from my children, but the cycle would repeat itself day after day. My Alice persona would scurry around picking up toys and trash, putting the pillows back on the sofa and wiping up you know what from toilet seats. I found I was doing a little of everything, but accomplishing nothing. My house was always out of sorts.

Well, one night Alice went to bed and CJ woke up in her place. I was like the prodigal son who came into his right mind while sleeping in a pig pen. I went to bed with my brain crammed with "ToDo ToDay" lists and regrets about all that I didn't do, but when I woke up my mind felt light. Overnight my boys unknowingly inherited a portion of my "ToDo ToDay" list. (That is what I call my daily lists)

When the boys came into my room unannounced to beg for breakfast. Alice was gone. In her place was CJ! Mama was back! By time the breakfast dishes were cleared there was a chore chart, and the festivities began.

Here are the things Alice did, but mama refuses:

1. Mama does not clean other people's bedrooms.
2. Mama does not make dinner, set the table, clear the table, load and then empty the dishwasher.
3. Mama does not wipe pee off of toilet seats.
4. Mama does not go behind boys in the kitchen and put caps back onto bottles, milk into the refrigerator or twist tie the bread bag.
5. Mama does not give into whining and begging.(I have to admit that was the hardest)
6. Mama does not slather lotion onto the naked bodies of 6 and 8 year old boys.
7. Mama does not - I repeat -does not pick up dirty underwear that was somehow left on the hallway rug.

When did being mama become synonymous with being a maid or a personal assistant that handles every unpleasantry? We play a million roles as a mom, having to switch hats at any given moment. That is the nature of the beast. Most women are wired to multi-task, so I totally understand why many of us are the homekeepers. But what happened to children and teens having chores and being responsible for their own space and possessions. I see so many parents who inappropriately do everything for their kids from saying yes to every juice request to doing their science fair projects. It happens to us all for sure. We give in to the 4th cookie request or we help just a little to much on a school assignments. I am talking about children and teens that do not have to DO ANYTHING! Mom or dad cleans their room, does their laundry, and consistently follows after them picking up the trail of stuff left in their wake. Moms, I have to confess, I was on that path.

I don't want to give the impression that we in a picture perfect home. I am not a neat freak or tyrannical taskmaster. The chores my boys are responsible for are age appropriate and easy. I don't hound them to be perfect. In fact I have been known to rearrange the just put away cups and scoop up the shoes that were kicked under the bed while cleaning. My little men do not have to do what I do, or the way I do. They just have TO DO. Every single person in our house is a fully engaged contributor to the maintenance and well-being of our little family. We all have the pleasure of both giving and receiving.

Michael Jackson and a Lesson in Dying

2010-08-02T15:12:00.004-04:00

Q Wearing his Comedy Kit

Thursday before last, after a long day with my three children, I found myself at a concert with all of the kids in tow. My husband Jon is a professional musician and was playing for a musical revue at the famed Duke Ellington School of the Performing Arts in Washington, DC. Earlier I had mentioned that it would be a fun concert for the kids, so at the last minute, just as Jon was leaving, we all piled into our car with the broken air-conditioning and made our way to the school in Georgetown.  Jon had a rehearsal so we got there approximately two hours before the concert actually started. After chasing my kids around the theatre, the orchestra pit, and green room, the actual show finally started. Thank God!

We made it through the first few sets and intermission. The second half of the show was jazz and Motown, ending with a tribute to the late Michael Jackson.   I was sitting next to Quentin, with Noelle finally dozing in my lap. Jon-Jon was a seat away from Q watching the show. Images of MJ's life were projected on to the screen of the stage while the kids sang. Quentin touched my arm and asked," Is Michael Jackson real?" I was surprised by the question because he had been listening to MJ all of his life. Daddy often covered Jackson's music in his gigs, so he would brush up by listening to MJ's songs, particularly from the Jackson Five days.

"Yes he is real." I whispered. Q started to ask me another question but I sssshed him. I can't remember the second question he asked me, all I know is that my answer was, " Michael Jackson died last year." What followed was a sharp gasp. I glanced at Q, his eyes were wide and his mouth hung open. I turned back to the concert, Quentin has always been dramatic, so I did not think much about his response.

"Did he go someplace before?" Quentin asked excitedly, his voice high-pitched and shaky. I was still oblivious to what was going on. "Quentin," I replied sternly, "Let's talk about this after. If I can hear you - so can everybody else." I turned my attention back to the stage where they were singing, "Heal the World." It was only a matter of seconds when I felt shaking. I turned. Quentin was sobbing. He had crumbled down into his seat and his eyes were filled with tears. He was trying so hard to be quiet, but the sobbing wracked his little body and every few seconds a shaky gasp would slip out.  He was looking up, which is what he does when he is trying to stop his tears. I was shocked.

"Baby! What's wrong?" I passed a sleepy Noelle over to her big brother and took Q into my lap.
"Why are you crying?" I asked hugging him as tightly as I could.
"Did he go somewhere before he died. Did he go to a better place?" He asked, still trying to keep his grief inside.
"You mean after he died?"
"Yes."
"Yes baby he went to a better place." I whispered as gently as I could.
"Better than China?" he asked.
I had to laugh." Yes - much better than China."
"He was my favorite." His crying started to get louder. It was hard for me not to cry, he was so genuinely sad and hurt.  On stage the Jackson Five group started singing, " You and I must make a pact, we must bring salvation back...where there is love - I'll be there." A young Michael Jackson flashed on the screen.
"Michael Jackson, he was my favorite player..." he cried. As he erupted into more tears, I picked him up and hurried him out of the theatre. In the foyer, Quentin just cried, repeating over and over that Michael Jackson was his "favorite player." He didn't know the word for "entertainer" and at that time he couldn't find the word "singer" in his vocabulary. I whispered and rubbed his back to calm him, but I didn't try to make him stop crying. Quentin had a right to his tears and grief.

As I held Quentin and allowed him to explain to me how much he loved MJ, I realized that the reality of death and loss just hit him. Over the years he had heard us talk about Lauren and was even involved in some of the conversations.  Last summer he was present when my visiting niece announced Michael Jackson's death. We all talked about it freely and I had thought at the time that Quentin understood. He didn't.

Quentin's understanding came in the dim theatre while the young boys in Afros and bell bottoms sang and grainy images of Michael Jackson flashed in the background. The sadness of the music, the happy images of a young gifted boy, the stillness of the audience and the sobriety in which the kids sang all contributed to Q's sudden understanding about the finality of death.

We went back into the theatre when the music became more upbeat. Q went on to tell me, " He was my biggest fan!"
"You mean you were his biggest fan?" I corrected as I wiped his tears.
"NO!" He screeched, " He was MY biggest fan!" Q wasn't in the mood to be corrected.
He sat in his seat alternating between weeping and crying until the show was over and the houselights were up. After about an additional 15 minutes, I asked him if he could stop crying.
"No. I am sad that Michael Jackson is dead and I want to cry." He stated firmly between his tears." I will stop crying after I talk to my daddy." So we sat there, he in his seat, sleeping Noelle in my lap, and Jon-Jon already in the orchestra pit with Jon. I could tell by the movement of Jon-Jon's hands and the animation of his face, that he was already telling Daddy everything.

It wasn't until we got to the car, that he got a chance to talk to daddy who was tired and annoyed. It had been a VERY long concert. I said to Jon, "He needs to tell you what's on his mind." Daddy slipped into the driver's seat, turned, looked at Q and asked, "What is on your mind?" Quentin told him as best he could about his sadness over Michael Jackson's death. Jon took a second and replied, "You know what Q? When Michael Jackson died, there were many many people, grown-ups from all around the world, who loved him very much and and they cried too. It is alright to be sad and to cry. "
"I was his biggest fan." Q stated his tears already drying.
"Wow! Now that's saying something." Jon stated nodding." Do you think you can stop crying now?" He asked.  Quentin nodded.  Jon got out of the car and finished packing the trunk. After the car door closed behind him, I turned to Q and asked, "Do you feel better now?" He smiled and nodded.

Daddy returned and as we pulled off in the car we talked about the 50 years of music, videos and concerts Michael Jackson left behind.   Jon and I started reminiscing about the early Michael Jackson days as Jon-Jon and Q listened.

"Oops!" Quentin suddenly interrupted.
"What!" We all asked in unison.
"I forgot...I like The Beatles more than Michael Jackson!" He yelled. "Two of the Beatles are dead." I stated without any good reason. There was a long sigh, "Ohhhh NEVER mind." Quentin replied in exasperation. We all laughed together. It's true - children are reslient.

O Come Let us Vent Together!

2010-07-20T12:32:00.020-04:00

I am inspired to share and I want to invite you to do the same. This motivation came a couple of nights ago when I recently finished reading Sisters are Doing it for Themselves, a post written by Paula, a fellow mom blogger. It is a great piece about the scrutiny we find ourselves subjected to as moms and how the advice of others can leave us shocked, offended and disappointed. Not because we don't value insight, but we know when the "advice" offered is really a cloaked insult or criticism aimed at our personal mothering choices. Paula really got to the core when she wrote:

We women fought so hard to have a choice and now we have to question each other by suggesting what exactly the right choice is. Of course I have no answer and even if I thought I did, I wouldn't offer it to anyone else. That's because in all honestly I don't believe there is any one right choice. Not for the children. Not for the parents. Not for any of us. There is only what works for each of us. --Paula, Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic New Mother

After reading this post, I instantly recalled a breast pumping situation that left me fuming. So I decided to share - well vent really. Please do the same and comment. Spill the beans and share one of those times when you wanted to shout, "Mind Your Bleep-iddy Bleep Business!"

I was still in the recovery room after I delivered my daughters Lauren and Noelle. A few minutes earlier in the operating room after Noelle was rushed to the NICU, my Doctor gently recommended that I spend time with Lauren, and I agreed. When I was settled into the recovery room, someone brought in a bassinet and let me know Lauren would be in at any moment, my nurse was washing and dressing her. We were told that we could hold and sit with her for as long as we wanted.

While Jon and I waited, a short bird like woman with short ash blond hair, literally popped into the room and introduced herself as the Lactation Consultant. Suddenly, the volume in the room went from silence to ear-popping and our quiet space was filled with words and movement.   Lactation Consultant was a cross between Tigger and Cinderella - after she fit into the glass slipper. It felt like she was going to break into song at any second. To me she seemed inappropriately gleeful and bouncy.

Lactation Consultant let me know that she would be dropping by my room later so that we could get the breast pumping process started. I can't remember the entire conversation, it could not have been longer than a minute.
I said something about having breastfed two babies before and really needing to speak to her another day.
She said something about Noelle being a fragile preemie needing my colostrum and milk ASAP.
"Another time." I pressed.
She pressed back - harder. "It's so-oh important...preemieeees need the bre-est. It's the best thing for them to get stronger."

I can't recall what else she said in her sing-songy voice, but when Lactation Consultant finished, guilt rested right on top of all the other emotions I was reeling from. She got me good. I was a bad mother, only concerned about myself while Noelle's life hung in the balance.   I gave in.  Lactation Consultant left just as chipper as could be promising to return. My baby had died less than three hours ago.

The nurse brought Lauren in, the details of my holding her I will reserve for another post.   After about an hour, I was told they were moving me my hospital room was ready. I wasn't going back to the "sick" ladies ward, where I had been for a couple of weeks. I was going into the maternity ward. As they started to wheel me out, I looked over at the bassinet. In seconds someone was wheeling Lauren alongside of my gurney.

In my room I held her some more, cried some more, held Jon, cried with Jon - asked for a Pepsi and finally settled down. It was time. Jon pushed Lauren into the little foyer next to the bathroom where I could see the bassinet, but I could not see her. It was time for me to let her go. Just as I was about to start crying again, I heard a loud woodpeckish knock on the door. Before we could answer, in strides Lactation Consultant pulling a blue industrial sized breast pump, with a manila folder stuck under her arm, and a bulky plastic bag in her hand.

"Hi-eye!" she greeted, "It's mee-ee Lactation Consultant!" "Is now a good time...oooh isn't she beautiful?' She paused at Lauren's Bassinet. "Just a perfect doll-baby! She is so-oh sweet." I glanced over at Jon and wondered if he was thinking what I was. Did she think the baby was ...alive?Lactation Consultant peeked further into the bassinet and loudly oohed and ahhed, I thought at any second she was going to "kitchy kitchy koo " Lauren under the chin. I thought of telling her that wasn't Noelle when she said, "I am so-oh sorry for your loss, but God needed another angel in Heaven. It was just His will." I couldn't believe it - not only did she just barge into my room (twice) to guilt me into breast pumping immediately, now she was telling me that God killed my baby because He wanted her for Himself.

"Is now a good time?' Lactation Consultant asked again. "No." I replied, but she wheeled her crap in anyway. "I have to leave early - so this won't take long. Breastfeeding is so-oh important. Little Noelle nee-eds it." she sang. I raised my bed to a full sit.  Lactation Consultant pulled her pump over, which was a blue wheeled version of the one I used. She went from showing me the on switch to telling me I could keep the the breast kit.   I told her twice that I breastfed and pumped with my sons on the same machine. No acknowledgement. Lactation Consultant got particularly excited when she told me the bottles actually came in two different volumes and the bright yellow screw caps fit them both.

My anger was starting to bubble up, I was about 30 seconds away from pulling my fat, bleeding, leaky, c-sectioned self out of that bed to slap the jolly out of her.   Jon quickly removed himself.

Lactation Consultant shuffled through her papers and pulled out the rental agreement and some general lactation information, explaining everything in excruciating detail. When finished, she slapped her folder shut and smiled. "Well we are good to go! I just wanted to leave you the machine and get the paperwork to you before I left. Star-art pumping as soon as you ca-an!" she sang along with a jaunty finger wag. She said her goodbyes and left.

I started pumping after they rolled Lauren away. The next morning when I got to see Noelle for the first time, I had a filled all the bottles. The nurse was shocked to see the volume. I expected that they would feed her immediately, but I was quickly informed by the nurse and Noelle's Dr., that it would be a while before Noelle could even be tube-fed. When my Dr. came to visit, everyone got an earful. HE stormed off to complain.

I had every intention of breastfeeding Noelle.  I was one of those rare women where breastfeeding and pumping was relatively easy.   I wasn't guilted into breastfeeding. I just needed a moment to get myself together.  I was angry because I felt manipulated and strong-armed into doing it under someone else's terms. Lactation Consultant made it clear that Breast pumping was the only important thing, so much so that she willingly and knowingly injected herself into my final moments with Lauren without thought or reservation.

I would love to hear you stories. Please share.

Living and Loving my Adulthood

2010-07-15T23:14:00.001-04:00

This is the first time in my 22 years of being a legal adult, that I have truly embraced my adulthood. Don't get me wrong, I haven't been on the hunt for the fountain of youth, and I don't care about wrinkles, gray hair and death, although I do want to hold that off for as long as humanly possible. I wasn't afraid of aging, I was afraid of losing my young-ness. So I held on to it as hard as I could.

Specifically, it was the twenty-something CJ I held on to. I didn't intentionally try to keep her around, but she was there, in my mental grip. CJ reminded me of what my life was supposed to look like. Who I was supposed to be as an artist, a writer, and a woman who always danced to the beat of a different drummer (as my mom used to say). She was who I saw myself as, and I held her tighter and tighter as I moved further and further away from her. However, in the illusion I had created, she and I were still the same. As a result, I never felt like an adult, even though I existed and navigated a very adult world.

I can recall, about three years ago, having my first moment of clarity.  My husband Jon and I were in the kitchen of our old house unpacking groceries. He started sharing with me that one of his female friends from college had scored a role on one of those TV shows featuring a gaggle of bratty,sex-addicted and malicious teenagers. I had just seen the trailer for the new season and I said excitedly, "Oooh, is she playing the bitchy new girl?" Jon froze, his hand reaching into a grocery bag. His facial expression hung somewhere between a frown and a laugh. "Noooo," he replied slowly. "Umm, she's the mother." He threw me his, "Are you crazy?" look and laughed. I suddenly realized that I, a 38 year old mom (at the time), assumed a women the same age as me was playing a college freshman!  I laughed long and hard, but that incident was the first indication that my perception of myself was - off.

I gradually started to notice I talked about what I used to do. I talked about the fabulous experiences of my past.  I had great stories and they were always in context with the topic of the discussion, but they always featured twenty-something CJ.   Yes, I've been to Paris. I had my own radio show in college. I sang at the famous Blue Note Jazz Club the night Ray Charles was there. Blah, blah, blah, blah blah. I never re-counted my exploits as faded memories because they were still vibrant and vivid in my mind.  It always seemed like...just yesterday. Well, until I started counting back the years. The brutal truth was that my greatest adventures were 20 years behind me.

I finally got it through my head that I was not that twenty-something CJ. I was a chronically bored grown-up with a husband and three kids and had to take responsibility for my current boring, restrained 41 year old life. I know, I know! Things happens in life, and it doesn't always turn out the way we expect. So we change and adapt. I totally understand - but dang! I could be doing SOMETHING that felt like me. Growing up and maturing was one thing - living in a hectic, fast paced, boring rut was another. So I took responsibility.

I don't want anyone getting the wrong idea about my entering grown-upville. Taking responsibility for my life didn't result in me coming to my senses, digging my heels in and getting down to grown-folks business. I didn't miraculously start fulfilling the duties of a middle-aged, newly minted SAHM mom with acumen and zest. I am no cookie baking PTA president/den-mother/mini-van driving soccer mom.  I took responsibility of the fact that I had let my life slip into something I didn't want.  For me, true adulthood began when I decided to live out of who I was instead of living up to who I was supposed to be.

I pish-posh the great myth that you have to give up your Self to be a great mom and wife. I do not agree that somehow the mantle of womanhood means no more playing in the rain, or dancing as hard as you possibly can to very loud music. I have come to the conclusion that I AM a great mom and wife because I give them the best of myself that grows and expands with every birthday. My children are getting to know the real me and I love that. My husband gets to experience the woman he fell in love with 18 years ago, but in greater measure as I get older. My new motto is, "Do you, love big, have fun and get the job done!"

My young-ness is in full force, but it took becoming a grown-up to recover it.

Quiet Sleepy Moments

2010-07-05T14:20:00.001-04:00

My husband works very early hours, so generally he is not here when the kids wake up. He is usually at his office by 6:00am. When daddy is here, I can ease into my day gently instead of being jolted awake by the alarm, or a TV blast, or a demand - by a usually stinky child - requesting breakfast, juice or Oreo cookies. Instead, daddy and I linger until the kids can't stand it anymore and start reminding us that good parents make their children breakfast before noon.

Occasionally on these mornings with daddy, Noelle will sneak into our room and get in our bed. This is the only time when she is quiet. She opens and closes the door very quietly, tiptoes the few steps to our bed and slips under the sheets on her daddy's side. She lays quietly in his arms until all eyes are open. I love these times. My favorite Noelle moments are when she is in bed with daddy. I love it when I open my eyes to see my wild-haired baby laying quietly with daddy. Sometimes she is just still and quiet. Other times she is singing softly. Her eyes are always fixed on daddy. Watching and observing him, fascinated, and very eagerly anticipating the moment when his eyes finally open and he whispers, "Good morning baby". She smiles as if daddy is her own personal Christmas.

This morning was one of those mornings. Through my earplugs I heard a strange clucking noise. I thought it was Jon's CPAP machine making crazy. My husband has sleep apnea and has to wear a face mask that is connected to a breathing machine. Sometimes his mask gets cock-eyed and all sorts of noises start popping off from his side of the bed. So I was surprised when I turned to find a gently clucking Noelle, bedded-down perfectly in the crook of daddy’s arm. I stayed “asleep”, not wanting to break the quiet.

Daddy stirred a little. He had already shed off his sleep gear. His free arm was over his head exposing his generous amount of underarm hair. Noelle was staring at his underarm with a very focused curiosity. Still clucking, she slowly stretched out her skinny little arm and laid it across daddy's chest. Her body is so small that her arm didn’t quite make it all the way across. Her clucking slowed as two of her fingers started tiptoeing gently but determinedly, trying to make it the rest of the way across Daddy’s chest. This is when I caught on that Noelle was on a exploratory mission.

Her fingers were almost to daddy's other arm when, just like a cat stretching itself out of a curled up sleep, Noelle stretched a single finger forward . Although all was silent, except for daddy’s sleepy breathing, I could almost Noelle cheering herself on "I -am-alllllllll-most-there" she seemed to say just as her stretch reached it's limit. The tip of her tiny finger very very lightly touched the curly tip of a single underarm hair. She made it! In one swift fluid motion, still with eyes closed, daddy caught her hand and rested it back at his side. She settled right back in the pocket of his arm, and went back to the usual, examining his face.

I pulled the duvet cover up over my mouth to hide my smile. It took every once of self control not to laugh outright. The movement made daddy open his eyes turn slightly my way. He acknowledged my hidden grin that my squinty eyes gave away. Noelle noticed it too, and with her beautiful full smile immediately began talking. "I want daddy to make me some cream in wheat." I nodded, noticing that daddy was still holding her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. With her other hand, she was gently playing with his great big fingers.

I never interrupt those Noelle and Daddy moments. They have existed since Noelle's first days. Whenever Daddy got the chance to hold her outside of her incubator, despite her tininess and fragility at the sound of his voice, she gave him a big smile. From those days until now, I feel no need to be included. I am an observer, trying to take in as much as possible.

This morning I felt an enormous burst of gratitude. It left me somewhere between laughing and crying. Something about this morning's exchange made me feel strongly grounded. I can't offer any logic behind it. I just know that these intimate moments, fill me with a "knowing" that I am just where I belong. I feel full and complete. I am settled into the crook of my life's arm.

My First Blog Award!

2010-06-29T19:43:00.000-04:00

I received my first blog award from http://momstheglue.blogspot.com/. I am so honored! Shout out to Deana! I am very honored as a relatively new blogger to be given an award!

To you winners: So to pass the love on - here are my 12 picks for the Sunshine Award. And I ask that you wonderful winners share the love by posting this award on your blog and showcase your 12 picks by linking to their blogs. Let your winners know by leaving a "YOU WIN" comment on their blog.

To you visitors, check out these blogs. You will enjoy.

CJ's Sunshine Award Winners!
Fashion Confessions of a Mommy!
Belly Monster
Choosing to Grow Through Marriage
Is Disnornal.com
Let Me Think!
Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic New Mother
Cocoa Mommy
The Shelf Life of a Novel Writing Book Writer
The Write One Blog
Little Tots/Big Ideas
True Stories, Honest Lies
The Write Curl Diary

Guilty of Being Guilty!

2010-06-23T16:47:00.000-04:00

The weirdest thing happened to me this morning. I am following the program from The Artist's Way. So every morning before I get my day going, I write three longhand pages of whatever comes to my mind. It has been great and I highly recommend checking out the book by Julia Cameron - or google some of her assignments.

The thing is - I bought a new journal to write in. I do not know about other writers, but I am obsessed with notebooks, journals, paper, pens - anything that has to do with writing. So I make my journal and notebook selections very carefully. This journal is a bit shorter than, but as wide as a regular sized spiral notebook. The paper is nice and thick, no bleeding if I decide to use a felt tip or rollerball. It has an elastic band to keep it closed and a ribbon bookmark. It is my favorite color - deep red and most importantly, it fits in my big yellow hobo bag.

So - I have been doing my "morning pages" religiously in my new journal since Saturday. My everyday journal ( I use the Black n' Red spirals) has only been jotted in a few times. Mostly notes to myself and my TODO TODAY list. This morning, as I began writing I started thinking about my good old Black n' Red. I thought, maybe I should go back and start writing in it again. It was kinda unfair that I abandoned it for this beautiful spankin' new journal. I sighed at the image of it sitting on my desk forsaken and unused. How utterly sad.

Then I stopped - I interrupted that ridiculous train of thought and was shock to discover that I felt GUILTY! Within 15 seconds I had almost convinced myself my journal was offended and felt cast-off and forgotten. With a quickness I told my brain, "Listen here - that notebook is an inanimate object. The only life it possesses is what I give it!"  I laughed to (and at) myself, moved on and finished my pages. I recognize that my moment was a result of a writer's mind taking liberties with reality. But it did get me to thinking.

I operate on an auto-pilot guilt system. If the house isn't all that clean, I am a terrible housekeeper. If I scream at my kids, I am a bad mother. If I fail to give my husband a hug, I am a terrible wife. You get the picture. The truth is that I am pretty good at all those things. We live in a fun, kinda cool, happy household that only stinks half the time.

I think for many of us women, we are almost conditioned to second guess our abilities. Look at what images of womanhood are thrown at us everyday through print and TV. You can't go anywhere without a call to BE BETTER! You know what commercial I hate? The Glade commercial where the husband throws his gym bag on the living room chair and the air freshener just sucks away the funk. I mean - if that is the worst of it -of course your Glade plug-in will work in your absolutely ridiculously clean and perfectly decorated home. Try it in a room where your two sons pee the bed almost every night. The truth is I hate that commercial because I really want a ridiculously clean, perfectly decorated house and for so long I stressed and felt terrible about myself because I couldn't achieve it. I think we question our abilities because no matter how well we do - somewhere the impossible standard of perfection is looming way WAY above our current reality.

It doesn't matter if we stay at home, work at home, or work at work. It doesn't matter if we are single, married, partnered or childless. Everywhere we turn there is a judge and jury just itching to show us our shortcomings and debate our life strategies and beliefs. Someone is always in the shadows ready to tell us we are simply wrong.  Not just wrong about the BIG things like religion, parenting and TV watching. (Celebrity Apprentice anyone?) The shadow people let us know we are wrong about everything from the way we handled a conflict at work to our asinine choice of paper towels.

These shadow people who are ready to pounce can be friends, family, co-workers, bosses, and fellow bloggers.  (I won't even get into the blog commentors). But the worst of the worse is that person that lurks in the corners of our own minds that cause us to question even the little things we do.   Wrapped in those nagging second-guesses is guilt. That pain we feel because we aren't doing "it" right.

However, the great thing is we are aware. I really believe that right in the core of who we are - we know the deal about all the guilt and self questioning. It may just take a little something to spark that face-off. The good news is that Life always presents us with that something that makes you stand up and say, "What the hell am I thinking!" Then we look at IT, the life that we feel we aren't doing right, and we realize, there is really nothing wrong with IT. IT may not be perfect - but IT is fine just the way IT is.

And I can write in any flippin' notebook that I want!

Show Me...Me.

2010-06-21T21:31:00.000-04:00

Up until Noelle was born, I spent the better part of my adult life trying to figure out what was wrong with me. No matter how hard I tried and what tactics I used, I could not seem to break out of this cycle of discontent and depression. About 7 years ago I found myself on the carpet in my den crying my eyes out - begging God to tell me why I was so broken.

It wasn’t the first time I found myself on the floor of that room. It had been a nightly ritual for about a month. The den was dark, we had painted it a deep, deep navy blue and it had bright white trim around the still standing original doorway and windows. The den was a last minute, somewhat shabby add-on to the existing house. I don’t even think it the heating system reached it properly. But I liked it. It was warm and comforting. It wasn’t depressing or cave-like because it had 3 huge windows that we covered in white IKEA shades.

During my nightly ritual, after I put my baby to sleep, I would cocoon myself up in a huge white quilted featherbed. I would play soft music on my CD player and pray. On this particular night, I was overwhelmingly sad. The feeling was so concrete, so intense that it felt like an illness had crept into my body and started eating away my mind and my nerves. I was confused, disoriented and so terribly sad. I couldn’t find any clarity. I just didn’t know why I felt this way. Every part of me seemed to be shaken. I even lost the words to pray.

Depression was not new to me; I have struggled with it for as long as I can remember. Sometimes I could name the triggers, like when my Father passed away, but for the most part I couldn’t. There were times when I was on top of the world, when I had everything that I wanted and before I could enjoy the fruits of my labor – , “Good Morning Heartache, here we go again.”

That night in my den, it all came to a crashing head. I didn’t care about all that was going wrong. I didn’t care that Jon just lost his job. I didn’t care that our car got repo-ed or that we were about to lose our house because of a scam. I knew that those things really weren’t at the root of my pain. And to be honest, I knew we would survive. I had been chasing things and status (if you want to call it that), because I thought those were the things that would make me feel complete – make me feel better about my self. Ease the feelings of dissatisfaction and inadequacy. That night I realized the truth was that it didn’t matter what I had or didn’t have. What I lacked was an understanding about myself. That is why I cried out, “I cannot live like this. I don’t care about houses or cars or things. If things never change for me – I want to be satisfied. I just want to be able to lay my head on my pillow in peace. God show me…ME.”

I got up from that prayer. I wiped my tears. I climbed our creaky steps into my orange- supposed to be terra cotta bedroom and I went to sleep. At least I tried. I tossed and turned as usual and woke up just as drained and sad as the night before. But a seed was planted. A truth that quietly, but steadily pushed through over the course of the next seven years.

Every major event, every challenge, every tragedy and success showed me who I was. I both loved and hated the journey. Facades and pretenses I didn’t even realize existed were being chipped away, like a sculptor chips away at a cold hard formless block of marble or ice. Yet, as the façades and pretenses, and every thing big or small that really didn’t express who I was fell away, a pretty strong, smart and resilient woman started to emerge. The funny thing – she wasn’t a stranger to me at all. I knew her well. She was all the dreams I had as a girl - dreams that had all grown up. Dreams about music,writing and beauty. Dreams about love, family and friendship. I have it all.

I was never broken and I was never lost. The whole complete me was always there, I just needed to be re-discovered. I just needed to remember.

Life re- introduced me to myself. I thank God for it every single day.

Photo Courtesy of Dan: Please visit if you would like to see more.

Flat Mommy, Boredom & Hussy Shoes

2010-06-09T11:23:00.000-04:00

I know I have been neglecting my writing. I have been in mommy mode for the last couple of weeks, dealing with end of school activities along with preparing for a new volunteer position at Noelle's school. Also, I have not really been inspired. I am soooo bored these days. For the last several days I have felt like Flat Stanley. You guys know Flat Stanley? That two dimensional guy, the brain child of author Jeff Brown from the 60s. Well, he has made a huge comeback, and travels in various ways from the homes of elementary school children into the lives of friends and families in order to pose for staged pictures. Flat Stanley participates in family activities or sight sees at local tourist attractions. Sometimes he is even dressed to impress. But he's flat. And boring.

That is how I have been feeling - boring and flat, superimposed on to the pictures and activities in my life. I'm there, but not really. I show up at the kiddie picnics and school meetings, with all the right props, happily saying all the right things but steadily yawning in my brain and fantasizing about my head hitting the pillow. Well, not my pillow, but some hotel pillow in Miami or Vegas.

In my daydream I wake up to dinner in bed in a fabulous windowed suite with a skyline view. Afterwards I step into my high heeled hussy shoes and sparkly party clothes. While dancing at the hottest nightclub I throw my hair back and mesmerize all with my commercial ready smile and glowing skin. Johnny Depp and that beautiful Terrance Howard stroll by casting their eyes longingly on me while my husband is fetching me a champagne. I am strangely tall - a graceful, lean 5'5'' and my legs are really shiny. There is nothing flat or boring about me while I am flitting around the nightlife in Miami slash Vegas -Myeggas. I am hip! I am as sparkly as my clothes. I am IT!

I'm laughing just writing this. Even if I had the chance to make that a reality, I probably wouldn't. When my husband and I get the time and the money to go away, it is usually a hotel in downtown or Georgetown, DC that has a soft bed , a flat screen TV and great room service. I have never - ever desired to go to Miami or Vegas in my life. The last place I think of going to have a good time is a nightclub wearing high-heeled shoes. I reserve heels for affairs where at least 80% of the activities involve sitting. In truth, Jon and I usually end up at the movies and a place that either makes good hot wings or cheesecake. What is true is that my husband does make me a drink now and then (I hate champagne) and last week he brought me Tacos in bed for dinner while I was trying to write/play solitaire. As far as Johnny Deep and that beautiful Terrance Howard, the truth is that I do occasionally have "sexy dreams" but they are always with my husband. That cracks me up, but its the truth!

You know what, I am not so bored anymore. I am going to the mall and by myself a new pair of hussy shoes.

For more information about Flat Stanley visit http://flatstanley.com.

I Write Because...

2010-05-21T00:08:00.001-04:00

People ask me all the time why I write about losing a baby. They might not ask me through words, but I see the question in their eyes, I feel it in their pause after I mention it, I hear it in their indirect comments. One person actually said to me, “Well, imagine how women feel that lose babies that they actually delivered!” I was stunned. Heart-stopping stunned. I couldn’t even respond because my brain could not absorb the significance of the statement. “What the freak does that mean?” I asked myself later. And then it hit me. It was simple actually. My baby wasn’t as significant because she died before she lived. She died before people knew her name, before her first diaper, before her first taste of milk, before the first smile, tooth and day at school. To the outside, she never really existed.

Truth be told, since I still talk about losing Lauren three years later, people assume I am emotionally devastated. They think I should be healed by now. At this point the experience should be regulated to…just a sad thing that happened status. My focus and love should be reserved for my three real children. So why keep talking about it? Just let it go. ..Why re-live it all by writing?

I write because …I am a writer.

I write because I have something to say.

I write because losing Lauren was the single most significant, transformative experience of my life. It made me remember who I was created to be.

I write because children who die before they are born are real. They deserve to be remembered.

I write because some mistake the grief of a woman as weakness. We are not weak, we are honest.

I write because there are those who would like us to pretend it never happened to save them discomfort. Oh well.

I write because every word, regardless of how painful, is a prayer of thanksgiving. It is an offering that my soul longs to give. Everyday I thank God for my imperfect world. I am complete.

I write because I love her and she will always be apart of me.

Picture Courtesy of Dreamstime
http://www.dreamstime.com/stock-photo-close-up-of-a-fountain-pen-rimagefree7929446-resi2119550

The Night Before...

2010-05-18T00:03:00.000-04:00

Photo courtesy of Dan

The night before I lost the baby, I started having contractions. Having contractions was not unusual because I had serious pre-term labor issues with my two previous pregnancies. Most of the time during pregnancy number 3, I did not feel compelled to mention my contractions if they were few and far between. The whole experience was old, old hat for me. This night was different; I was anxious and didn’t know why. Just by writing this I am placing myself back in that private room, wearing the largest hospital gown ever coupled with these leg brace thingies to keep the circulation or something going in my legs. I can smell the antiseptic mixed with antibacterial soap. I remember exactly how the room looked with my TV hanging in the right corner casting the only light in the room making everything blue and wiggly. Wiggly like heat rising off asphalt on a hot day.

My rollaway hospital tray was on an angle, messy with a stack of mindless reading, my huge pitcher of ice (no water, hated the stuff since I became pregnant) dangerously perched on one of the books. My weird hospital sock slippers were on the floor next to the bed, looking almost radioactive because they were blue and the light of the TV made them glow.

I have to admit, the hospital bed rest wasn’t terrible. I got to lie in bed all day and night, have someone wait on me hand and foot and have my friends and family give their undying love and attention. I was one of the lucky ones, I could get up to pee and raid my fridge. To be totally honest, hospital bed rest actually proved to be therapeutic for me. Well, that and the anti-depressants that I finally started to take after almost three months of procrastination. My moments of sadness came when I thought about why I was there. Not because of the pre-term labor, but because I was carrying identical twins who were in serious trouble. There was a 50/50 chance that I would lose them both before this was all over.

I remember that gradual muscular tightening around my belly down into my pelvis. “I got this.” I stated to myself. Like I said, it was old hat. But there was something different about that night making me internally jumpy and unsettled which added to my discomfort. So when the night nurse, an older Swedish looking woman asked the hourly question, “Any contractions?” I said, “Yes.” And the circus began. This is where the details get fuzzy. What I remember is a team of nurses coming in to try to monitor the twins without any luck for over an hour. Afterwards some other medical person came in with the portable sonogram, which for some reason didn’t work that well, and finally they took me to the head honcho on duty and he was able to find my two babes immediately and confirm that I was having mild contractions. So I got the shot. My contractions stopped, but my anxiety increased, my heart was racing and I could feel I was losing my mental grip. The babies were flipping all over the place, I am sure because of the Brethine.

A Law and Order SVU marathon was on. I sat up in my bed, with my leg massagers velcroed on and watched every episode in exhaustion. I didn’t want to sleep. The SVU episodes started to repeat and I watched for the second time the episode with Rebecca De Mornay portraying a woman confined to a wheel chair. I forced myself to switch the TV off. I had no such luck with my brain and my newly diagnosed OCD kicked in. “Rebecca De Mornay.” I whispered to myself. I liked the flow of her name. “Rebecca De Mornay.” I whispered again, then a third time and a forth. I realized how silly I sounded so I stopped repeating her name aloud. But in my mind I said it maybe a thousand times. I couldn’t stop. I just couldn’t stop. I fell asleep repeating her name like some sort of random mantra.

I think about those moments more often since I started writing again. They are bittersweet memories that open me up to very complicated emotions. They produce that sadness that I don’t think will ever leave me. It’s not an everyday sadness by any means. It isn’t debilitating or devastating. It is a sadness that I access when I choose to remember. It reminds me of the box of photos I always have on my desk or bureau. It moves around as I try to keep it from the kids, or when I am pretending to de-clutter. But it is always there ready to transport me back in time.

Along with the sadness is the feeling of absolute, soul filling gratitude. I made it through, and I am a better woman because of it. I am alive and well. That is what astounds me everyday - I Am Well.

Help! I Can't Turn Off my Mind! Part Deux...

2010-05-15T22:33:00.000-04:00

Obviously, I am an introspective person, I am always somewhere in my head no matter what is going on. If a problem arises, or if I get one of my fantastic ideas, my brain starts clicking away trying to figure it ALL out at once. Before I know it I am wired and uptight and those forty-winks become more and more elusive.

So I got to thinking. I started to think about why I think too much. I think I finally figured it out. So here goes...I think... alot...Period. CJ is a thinker. Not to be compared with Socrates or Bono of course. But thinking is what I do, and starting today - I am ok with it.

But I must sleep. To start my day off positively, I must feel rested, peaceful and inspired. (At least long enough to get Noelle her bath and the boys off to school). The truth is that my nightly thoughts were none of those things. There was no rest, no peace, no inspiration.   The evening ritual that played out in my head was ridden with negativity, discouragement and fear. It was insane to think that I could sleep with all of that anxiety racing around in my brain, building up night after night.

My initial goal was to just turn it all off. To figure out some great formula that would allow it all to stop and SNAP me into sleep wonderland. But I can't turn who I am off - so I had to find another way.  It finally occurred to me that I can't stop myself from thinking - but I can control WHAT I think about. When I put my head down , before the whirlwind of thoughts start to whip up, I pause and remember that life has been good to me.   When all the problems, to do lists and self criticisms start forming, I very consciously start thinking about how grateful I am.

The truth is that I am incredibly grateful for this wonderful life. I am amazed at how far I have come both emotionally and spiritually. I am grateful because my life could have turned out differently. But here I am, after a lifelong struggle with depression, after being broke, after losing a baby, losing a house, losing friends - after finding that my son is the poster child for ADHD, after the meds, the tears and the insanity of it all - I am strangely the happiest and most content I have ever been. I just have to remember the truth of my life - which is - it's still good.

I promised I would share when I found a solution.

Remember that your life is still good and be grateful. And if you can't think of one thing to be grateful for (trust me - I have been there too),  focus on your breath. If you are still breathing that means you have the chance to figure it out tomorrow.

Good sleep to you all!

Photo Courtesy of Salvatore Vuono

Help! I Can't Turn Off my Mind!

2010-04-29T00:10:00.001-04:00

My brain never relaxes, it is always racing. I am always thinking DEEPLY about something, even if I have to make it up. Every night I lay my head on my pillow and my mind seems to say, "Let the wild rumpus begin!" Before I know it, my mind is off -running like a ticker tape spitting out all of the days events coupled with a whole lot of crap. I start thinking about everthing from my son's sudden change of temperment at school (he has ADHD) to having an argument with my daughter's high school principal about bullying. Did I mention my daughter is 3?

All of this thinking has exhausted me. Last week I stayed up until 3:00am stressing over a conflict I am having with a friend. The wierd thing is, I am not sure she is aware we are having a conflict. Ok, I do have a touch of OCD - or so I have been told, so sometimes thoughts just get stuck in my head. It actually takes me an hour to fall asleep for a nap. I know I have some company out there. I can't be the only one!

Fellow bloggers, do you have any tricks of the mommy trade that help you wind down at night. Let me know your thoughts. Keep in mind, I am not a big drinker and I don't smoke pot. (Smile)

I forgot my promise...

2010-04-27T14:33:00.001-04:00

I forgot. The only real promise I ever made to Lauren, I forgot. Three years ago on April 25th, my husband Jon and I with our three children and a close friend went to the hospital sponsored funeral service for Lauren and all the other babies that recently passed. The day she died, we were given the option of making funeral arrangements ourselves or participating in the services the hospital offered. I could not imagine making any type of "Arrangements" in the state I was in. So April 25th it was.

I remember the day very clearly, I was nervous - not just about how appropriate the service would be, but about how I would be able to cope. I was in a bubble. I remember the different neighborhoods passing as we drove to an unfamiliar part of Baltimore County, I remember what everyone was wearing, Jon-Jon and Q in their “we are dressed up” uniforms - khakis, oxford shirts and sweater vests. Five month old Noelle was wearing an adorable sweater and floral dress. I remember.

The service was just the right length, long enough to be respectable and sincere, short enough that the reality of it wasn't grueling. It was the right mix of practicality and spirituality. I don't remember the words, I remember the tone and it just kept reminding me that should have two little girls. The feeling of disbelief was astounding. Even now, it's still very real to me although no longer connected to devastation and trauma. However, on that day, I made a promise. I promised Lauren that April 25th would be her day. I promised and I forgot.

My life and my issues got away from me, and the day just passed as quickly as it came. I had decided a few weeks back to go to the cemetery and just sit. Sit, think, wonder, cry, remember - I was going to allow whatever I felt to come up and I was going to "let it". I don't know about other mothers who have lost babies, but it is very easy to get in the habit of pushing the sadness aside. Not "letting it" come up fully, not because you are in denial, but because you have to go to work, or take care of your other children, or deal with your parents. Life gets so busy that you say with your actions, "I'll deal with that later."

I believe that when you find out you are pregnant and acknowledge that your body becomes the sanctuary for your child to grow, you immediately begin the "mothering". We don't begin at their birth, we begin to mother our children by monitoring our diet, reading everything we can get our hands on or choosing the right doctors. We prepare and nurture our environments so our newborns can flow easily into our lives. We may not be perfect in it, and the execution of our preparation may not match all that we dreamed, but we try. Just like we try with our present children. But when you lose that baby, in or outside of the sanctuary you provided - all those hormones, dreams and expectations can get stuck, bottled up with no where to go. There is no off switch to those dreams, to that love that was meant to be expressed for that one little person. That is a hard - hard thing.

We deal with the immediate pain as best we can. We try to process through the residual as best we can. For some of us, we make decisions to memorialize or celebrate the children that passed. April 25th was my decision. It was going to be my "mothering" time for Lauren and I forgot. I am guilty of forgetting the only thing that is singularly hers.

It's a familiar guilt, like when you promise your child a special trip to the park, or a Wii competition and you don't deliver. It's not about the park, or the video game it’s about the fact that you didn’t deliver what was most important - you. Not out of selfishness, but maybe you were too late at the office, or you had to replace that burnt dinner at the last minute. You feel guilty because you know you didn't honor your word and that child doesn't really understand (or care to) the realities of the rat race we put ourselves in. It's hard not to feel like a let-down.

Right now, I'm hurting over the fact that I did not honor my word. I feel like crap.

I need to go now because here comes Noelle, she’s excitedly telling me about her big pink house with the beetle car that turns into an airplane to take "me and you" to pink China. And I hear my husband calling me - he's yelling from the living room that our 6 year old Q with ADHD has just passed his first Akido test - he is now a yellow belt. Life is still GREAT!

cj

My own little Naomi Campbell...

2010-04-14T21:55:00.001-04:00

I have talked alot about my journey through my twin pregnancy with Lauren and Noelle and I know it is heavy stuff. Heavy to write and heavy to read. But I have to say, even though my jumping into the deep of my memories has caused my emotions to rise and settle in a very touchable place, I am happy and excited. Although life is tough, messy, chaotic and somewhat unpredicitable, it is still good and I have learned a multitude of truths that can never be taken away from me. As difficult and painful my experience was, my life is better for it. In this post I wanted to give my baby Noelle some equal happy time.

Everyday I wake up and I cannot believe that I have three young kids, am a terrible excuse for a soccer mom and live in the suburbs of Washington, DC. When I was 21 I thought by time I was in my 40s -I would be living in a loft in New York's Lower East Side, frequenting poetry readings and writing Pulitzer Prize quality books. Truth be told, I thought this image would have manifested itself by time I was 30. 40 seemed like an impossible age to think about.

At 42 I live in a too small, messy apartment where my days are spent flabbergasted at how tired I am and trying to create order out of my chaos. My kids are high, high energy, very loud and very talkative. I swear Jon-Jon and Noelle both came out of the womb speaking in full sentences. Q talks less, but when he starts, it is nothing short of painful. My fascination with my kids rotates. This week I am on a Noelle kick. She simultaneously fascinates and cracks me up.

Noelle is all girl. Her favorite colors are pink and purple and she relays this information to me on a daily basis. After I do her hair - she runs to look in the mirror and offers me a critique. Noelle has carried a purse religiously since she was one. At the ripe old age of three she is afflicted with the dreaded female disease...shoe addiction! Especially ones that are bedazzaled and sparkly.

I've spoken with those moms who are way more enlightened than I - who express concern over their daughters fixation with pink and all things princess-ey. They do not want their daughters to fall into some sort of gender stereotype. Frankly, I do not worry about Noelle's hyper girlness. It doesn't bother me that she uses my sleep mask as a bra, is meticulous about the cleanliness of her hands, or that she is superior to me in her organization skills and neatness. I do not worry about it because she is currently expressing herself as she sees herself right now. It is not my job to dictate to her what level of girly-ness is appropriate. My job is to guide her into herself. And if I am to take that job seriously, I do not want to start, at her tender age of three, to communicate to her (on any level) that there is something wrong about who she is. Today she wants to be pink, fluffy and tutu-ish. She is experimenting with who she is, and the process of elimination could be the fastest way to get there. At five she may be a full-blown tom-boy outfitted with skinned knees and a dirty mouth.

The only thing I worry about with Noelle is making sure she doesn't have the Naomi Campbell syndrome. She keeps knocking her brothers upside the head with a variety of toys and household items. One of which was a pink, plastic barbie cell-phone. I catch her often before she strikes them with a balled fist (it looks more like she is giving them the thumbs up). Last week, her oldest brother Jon -Jon informed me that Noelle said that he and Q were "idiots". At church no less! So she was reprimanded sternly and sent to apologize immediately. The next day she accused them of being, "punks". This time I told Jon-Jon and Q to stop teaching her those words. Jon smilied sheepishly, so I knew I was on the right track.

Honestly, her brothers adore her. For the most part Noelle is kind, very generous, loving and extremely affectionate. She mothers and babies them the best way she knows how, and works very hard to keep them on the straight and narrow. She follows their every move, especially on the playground, so I have to constantly take her off mile high monkey bars, and keep her from climbing the outside of the tube slides. She's tough and I love it. She's bossy and it makes me smile, except when she demands that I leave what I am doing and get her toilet paper for her. When I refuse, she screams, "Mommy - I want YOU to get my toilet paper for meeee!" Sigh...

What amuses me and makes me most proud is the way she speaks. She has an advanced vocabularly, which is not unusal for kids in our family. But it's not necessarily the words she chooses, its how she chooses to use them. "Mommy are these sneakers on the right feet...or NO?" "Mommy, I would like some chicken nuggets...also." And my favorite is from last night at the dinner table when Jon was telling a story, Noelle looked up from picking the corn out of her cornbread, pointed to herself and asked, "Was Me there?" That's when I remembered Noelle is 3 and not 17. I just wish she would stay out of my makeup.

Lauren and Noelle

2010-04-12T23:40:00.000-04:00

April 25th is coming up and it is a significant day in my life. It is the 3rd anniversary of Lauren’s funeral services. It is also the day that I started writing again. I didn’t even realize that until, in preparation for this week’s blog, I pulled out my journal of three years ago and read that first entry on April 25th. Reading it again for the first time was interesting for me. It was like reading the writing of someone else. I was struck by the rawness of the emotions and I was saddened for the woman that lost her baby girl. As emotional as it was, I was glad I read it. The odd thing about losing a baby - losing Lauren - is that for everyone else, her life is forgotten. What is remembered is my experience, but Lauren as her own entity, as her own person, is long gone in the minds of most. That will never be my reality. And I don’t want it to be. The words remind me of her life.

Here is a portion of what I wrote on that day. And although I was seeking meaning to my loss, much of this still rings true for me.

April 25th, 2007.

I had a profound moment today at the burial site/ceremony for my baby Lauren Marie. I missed her. Terribly. So terrible it physically hurt, Even though I never experienced her life on this side of my womb, she was still mine. I still knew her intimately and although I only knew her for a few months, I knew her.

I still turn my eyes away when I see twins.

Let me tell you about Lauren Marie Poindexter. She was the calm one. She was peaceful and relatively quiet. She was an observer. Noelle was the doer, always moving, always doing.

Whenever we looked for Lauren – Baby A – she was there. Steadfast and predictable. Noelle would dodge and move. Never wanting to be monitored or spied on. But Lauren, she was the anchor during my pregnancy. I’ve entertained the idea that Lauren was so still and anchored because their cords were so twisted and entangled. But when I sit with that thought, my heart – my core tells me otherwise.

Miriam said to me today, if we operate from the premise that we choose to be here, we can “conclude” (Miriam’s word not mine) that she chose to go. I don’t know if it was her choice, but I do know that if she had not gone – they both, Lauren and Noelle would be lost to me. So as I remember – I thank Lauren for her life – she always comforted me and brought me peace. It was her heart that I consistently heard on a daily basis. Lauren was the protector. One time on the sonogram, after not being able to capture Noelle, we discovered that she was snuggled in so tightly under her sister that we could not find her. They were in a perfect ball. Yin and Yang. It was the most astounding thing I ever felt and witnessed. Lauren protected Noelle; she took all the pokes and prods. Lauren was the one everyone heard first, saw first, and monitored first. Then as fast as she made her presence known, it was gone. A short time later – my Noelle was born. The cord was wound tightly around her neck. She was dying too.

What do I believe about Lauren’s life? I believe she came to do what she was supposed to do – help me bring my Noelle, my joy, my laughter into this world. Could it have turned out differently? Of course. I could have two beautiful healthy identical baby girls. Right here, right now. But it is what it is.

Maybe when the “crisis “ came, Lauren realized they were in trouble and she – the anchor – decided to loosen herself from the only person she already loved. She loved Noelle, she protected her, she covered her, she saved her. If Lauren had not slipped away, they both would have died.

I love you Lauren. I miss you so much. My only regret is that I will not see you grow-up. But Noelle shows me you every single day. When I look at her sleeping – I remember my only experience holding you after delivery. When she laughs I see what would be your smile. When she cries, it your wrinkled forehead I see. I know she rolls under the sofa, or tries so desperately to crawl, that you would be right there watching her every move. But you – you would do everything in your own time.

I’m sorry you left me. I waited so desperately to have you with me too. But I thank you. And no matter what - I am still your mama.

Baby, I did the best I could. April 25th will always be for you.

Pregnant - with WHAT!!!!!

2010-04-05T20:23:00.000-04:00

I was already depressed when I found out I was pregnant for the 3rd time. Truth be told, that is how I got pregnant in the first place. I just didn’t care, and I neglected to tell my husband that I wasn’t using my new birth-control. Well, two weeks later I did get around to telling him. I’m not sure I have ever seen Jon so confused. He just could not wrap his mind around the fact that I just didn’t feel like telling him,” By the way the Dr. wouldn’t renew my birth control until my appointment - which I skippedd.” I still remember the look on his face. His eyes seemed to be saying, “Who is this woman?”

My two previous pregnancies were very planned. Before I even went to see the Dr. for the first OB visit, I knew how far along I was and what the due date would be. I was on the money! But this third time, in my weariness, in my disappointment and discouragement at life, it just kind of happened.

The funny thing was that at the beginning I was in denial about everything. I was in denial that I was depressed, again. I was in denial about being pregnant, again. In fact, when my body first started communicating pregnancy, my response was to hop on the elliptical machine and work out with a fury. I stuffed the suspicions even further down into my subconscious when I went to buy an outfit for a girlfriend’s emancipation party. I tried on several outfits and just couldn’t figure out why I felt so bloated and looked swollen. I finally had some sort of fashion anxiety attack which ended with me calling my husband from the dressing room of Macy’s relatively hysterical. He suggested that I find something simple, and just come home. I did – and I went to my bed immediately.

A couple of days later I could not deny the truth any longer. I went to put on my favorite jeans and could not zip them up. I mean I could not get the two sides to even meet! It is a wonder that I could pull them up at all. These were not some fancy pants that I pulled out on special occasions, these were my everyday jeans. It could not have been two weeks since I wore them last. (Can someone say dirty laudry) I looked at myself in the mirror and said, “Dammit, I’m pregnant.” I knew it. I knew it all along.

With Jon-Jon and Q , when I found out I was pregnant I was scared and excited. You know that good scared, the tummy shakin’ fear you feel before the rollercoaster drop, or before the black guy gets killed in a horror movie. The fun nervous shakes. This pregnancy fear was different. It was simple dread.

The depression that had started to descend slowly slammed on top of me like a falling elevator. Overnight I was out of commission. I scheduled my first appointment with a new ObGYN practice. (We had moved from DC to Baltimore County). My appointment was with the nurse practitioner – who upon eyeballing my swollen tummy said, “You think you are just 5 weeks pregnant?” I heard the skepticism in her voice but I KNEW I was just five weeks pregnant. It isn’t hard to determine when your sexual encounters are few and far between. After the exam, she said, “Well, you are either off on your dates, or you're carrying twins. You are measuring about 11 weeks.”

My head snapped around and I stated, “Don’t even let your lips form the words to say TWINS.” She laughed. I turned the denial switch on with a vengeance. I don’t even remember mentioning it to my husband Jon. My anxiety increased and the depression became more debilitating. I was on self-imposed bed-rest. The morning sickness was unbelievable. One of the worse things I have ever experienced, so much so I mentioned to my sister, “I wonder if this how chemotherapy patients feel.” I felt the silent scoff over the telephone, I knew I sounded like an idiot, but I couldn’t help myself.

I still refused to think about twins, I pushed the nagging thought further and further down in my spirit. Although I was huge already, I did not allow myself to think about it. Finally after one very emotional night, I decided that I had to resolve the issue within myself. So I got in my bed (actually I was already there) and I quieted myself down as best I could, and I asked the question, “God, am I hav –“ and before I could even get the prayer out into the heavens there was a resounding, “Yes – you are having twins” It was settled. I could not deny it any longer. But I still kept it to myself.

Finally it was the first sonogram day. I went in resolute in the truth of twins. The technician went about her business poking and prodding – twisting and turning me. All the while I was emotionally poised to hear the word “twins”. Finally she said, “Well, I am almost finished here.” I was estatic. I even allowed myself to breathe a bit. I thought, “See you are crazy – tripping off of what that NP told you.” I relaxed a tiny bit more when she said excitedly, “Oh – Wait!” My entire body started to shake . “Oh- ye-yep – there are two! One was hiding!” The shaking increased uncontrollably to the point that my legs were beginning to burn. “Two?” I whispered. She just grinned.

It is a wild feeling – thinking you dodged a bullet and then realizing it actually hit you square between the eyes. She said she had to talk with the Dr. and then I could put my clothes on. The Dr. almost immediately came back. I could hear them chatting in the next room and I remember hearing “one sac?” I still could not settle down, it was hard for me to button my shirt. The Dr. come into the eaminzation room and said a few words. Nothing else was mentioned to me about the “sac’ and I didn’t bring it up. That was another indication of my mental state. I would never have left any kind of medical visit with looming questions. But I went. Jon was waiting in the parking lot. I just gave him the images that read – Baby A and Baby B. It took him a while to figure it out. When he did he just said, “Twins?” I nodded. He looked both tired and excited.

I called my best friend in NY and while we were talking she reminded me that a few months ago I had sent her a prank email. In the subject line it said, “I am pregnant…” and in the body it said, “WITH TWINS!!” A few lines down I had written the obligatory HA! HA! When she reminded me of the email, I felt a twinge of guilt that stayed with me for a very long time. Maybe if I hadn't sent her that email...

She sent me a type of “ Twins for Morons” book. I can’t remember the title, but I remember that I read it in one sitting. I am an avid reader, as most writers are, and I research and read anything and everything that deals with my latest interest or obsession. I was so read up on pregnancy with my first baby, that I could have delivered him myself. I got to the “complications” chapter and the first thing I saw was an illustration of twins in utero that were drawn in one bubble, just floating around. I looked at that picture and it clicked. That was me. Those were my babies. Something was terribly wrong.

Jumping into my own life.

2010-03-29T22:31:00.001-04:00

I am already sad. Not the depressive sort of sad that in the past has debilitated and paralyzed me, but a sadness signifying that something in my life is about to come to an end. I think in anticipation of that “end”, today has been one big long sigh... I am about to do something that has been nagging me every single day for more than three years. I am about to jump deep into my own life and write the story of my Lauren. I know it is going to change me forever.

Lauren is not just the daughter I lost on October 9th, 2006. Lauren represents the portion of my life, where everything unraveled and what was left at the core was the question – where did I go? I have carefully lived my entire adult life floating above this undercurrent of unease. I knew it was there, but I pushed it aside and hoped with every move and accomplishment it would vanish.

I became a superwoman. I was highly accomplished in my jobs, I threw myself into the work of the church, I found a like-minded man and got married, had my first and second child. I was a stellar employee, minister, wife and mother. All the while my insides rumbled. I lived that entire existence with a hatred of it that was so buried I could not identify it. What is amazing now, in hindsight, I realize that the origin of my dissatisfaction was very simple, I wasn’t living my life. I was living somebody’s life, but it sure wasn’t mine!

I got caught up in being the most excellent I could be. I was moving through my life day by day, making plans that seemed good. I thought I was maturing, but actually I was doing the most sophomoric thing an adult can do. I was living to fit in and I did it for almost 20 years.  I stopped playing music, stepped away from the writer's community. In fact, I didn't write. Not at all. I made my attempts, but I could never gather the momentum needed to write. Not even for one day.

I had lost my voice. The voice I always lived by - the voice that was created just for me.  My voice, although still a little quiet, is back now and has been for a while.   By writing about Lauren, I am going to share that voice in a way I never have before. It's scary, exciting and nerve-racking all at once. I think today's sadness marked the mourning of my fairly anonymous life.

But now I am smiling. Still a little nervous, the nervousness a blogger gets before pushing publish, but I'm smiling.  I did it! I've jumped into writing my life head first. Even though I can't even swim.

Cj

The Last Heartbeat - How the loss of my daughter led to self-discovery.

2010-03-23T21:54:00.000-04:00

This is something I wrote a while ago, its a bit long, but it is about the most transformative moment in my life. The moment when I decided to be me again. The pics are of my miracle baby - Noelle.

I was standing at my kitchen counter drinking green tea from my favorite cup and laughing with my husband Jon when I had a moment. I was just thinking how I wanted my upcoming 40th birthday to be memorialized when I had a strange sensory experience that caught me absolutely off guard. My sons Jon-Jon and Quentin along with my daughter Noelle were playing with a giant red bouncy ball. Noelle was toddling around, looking a bit like a pink Godzilla trying to get the ball as the boys kicked and chased after it. It was both a fun and beautiful sight, with the sun streaming and reflecting through the windows making everything golden and warm. The kids were hysterically happy as they kicked and jumped. They laughed and squealed so loudly my ears hurt. Jon and I were standing together observing the ruckus when I suddenly froze in a silent panic. I instantly began counting my children. Not on a totally conscious level, but with that terminator-like instinct that mothers with multiple children possess. I performed my instant scan and immediately thought, "Someone is missing." I put my cup down on the counter and scanned again, this time with more intention. My eyes darted around the room honing in on each child. Noelle check. Jon-Jon check. Quentin check. They were all present and accounted for, laughing and kicking up dust in the sunlight. Confused, I frantically asked myself, "Who is missing?" In that instant my memory clicked back on and I realized someone, as always, was missing.

The previous fall, I was on hospitalized bed-rest in the midst of a rare high risk twin pregnancy. My little identical troublemakers, Lauren Marie and Noelle Elizabeth, were Mono-amniotic Mono-chorionic, which in common language means they shared both an amniotic sac and a placenta. Due to the complications and rarity of the pregnancy, the possibility of losing one if not both my daughters was always looming. In early October, I was 28 weeks along and everyone was starting to feel cautiously hopeful the twins would survive. However, the morning of October 9, during my routine monitoring, two very young looking nurses were attempting to find Lauren’s heartbeat which was odd, because Noelle was always the one darting about and squirming with every poke, making capturing her heartbeat for the designated 30 minutes a near impossibility. The nurses were prodding and manipulating my giant belly, when I heard it - a slow, rhythmic blump thump. "That’s her." I said softly, knowing that her heartbeat was too slow. "No." One of the girls stated, "That’s you." I said nothing, but instinctively I knew otherwise. Then the heartbeat stopped, abruptly. I knew Lauren was gone. She died right in the sanctity of my own womb.

That moment pierced my soul, shooting through me like a bullet. I was split in two, torn completely open, everything in me naked and exposed. It was as if I were inside out, where all that had once been protected and hidden was now out in the open where it didn’t belong. It was a deep, profound pain, so pronounced and articulate I felt confused by it. Historically, I was a pro at being able to select and communicate the appropriate response to most situations. In this instance, save for my own rapid heartbeat, I was paralyzed and most completely unable to select a response to losing my baby. I was, for the first time truly heartbroken. I didn’t know it then, but as I was being swiftly wheeled to the perinatal center, all my previous "heartbreaks," the lost loves, financial ruin, educational and professional failure, were being shaken off, the way dead fruit falls out of a tree during a storm. I stared up at the rapidly passing fluorescent lights and subconsciously every significant happening in my life was being filtered through my grief.

"Cj, I’m afraid I don’t have good news." The sonogram technician stated quietly. "She’s not there anymore." I tried to make my reply a question, but I couldn’t pretend I didn’t already know she was gone. The technician nodded. Right there, in that examination room, the shell of the person I mistakenly thought was real me evaporated. Everything that was false and unreal disappeared. The times I was someone other than myself. The periods when I allowed myself to be controlled and abused. The moments when I taught others that I was worthless. They all vanished as a result of the truth of my pain. Suddenly there was an illuminated pathway to the real me. A girl I had forgotten about almost twenty years ago. How could I go on living my life for the fleeting approval of others, for an ideal, for religious doctrine, for a paycheck? How would those lies honor the fleeting existence of my Lauren who was pure and holy. Somehow I knew the rest of my life had to memorialize the moment of her last heartbeat, that dark, heavy, but painfully honest moment when I became free.

Dealing with My Body Image...or how I went from being JLo to Mr. Burns from the Simpsons

2010-03-22T21:32:00.000-04:00

I must confess, in my 20s and 30s my body was pretty hot. I was known for having perfect abs, small tight waist, and a totally flat stomach. And my butt, well let's just say it was perfection. For most African American women, having a nice fat round butt is the platinum standard. That concept didn't hit the rest of America until Jennifer Lopez, who by the way was my body or should I say booty twin!

Even though by time I hit the magic age of 35, I had gained over 20 pounds and my abs had totally disappeared, I still looked good. My stomach was still flat and my butt was still stellar, at least until I got pregnant. Three times. The compilation of my pregnancies left my body unrecognizable. The only good thing that came out of my pregnancies were my children and my big boobs! I'm talkin the big Double Ds. That made up for the fact that my eyeballs couldn't even fit into a size 4...or 6...or 8...or 10. But I didn't have a body image problem. I knew I was chunky, and although I wasn't head over heels in love with my chunky self, I wasn't depressed or freaked about it either. So what I couldn't claim hot body status anymore! "Hey," I told myself, "This fat is only temporary"

My body issues started when I lost the weight! Every single extra pound! I was "back in the day" skinny. I lost over 40 pounds altogether. And you know what else I lost? I lost those big beautiful boobs, I lost my flat stomach, now I have a roll of skin and fat that would make the elephant man jealous. But the most horrific thing of all...I lost my magnificent booty. My beautiful butt was a droopy, flat, stretch mark ridden mess. I went from looking like JLO to Mr. Burns from the Simpsons. Flappy, floppy and wrinkled. Ok I am seriously exaggerating. Actually, my body still looks kinda good, it just doesn't look how I remember. And that's the rub - so to speak.

I confess, I am buying into that cursed Superwoman lie, that 40 is the new 21. The media machine flauting Demi Moore, Iman and other over forties. Damn you Helen Mirren! Who told you to put on a bikini and dance about for the photo hounds - at 63!!!!

Untll I raise tummy tuck cash or run into the fairy godmother of "make-the-fat flab dissapear", I will continue to buy my knock-off spanx, suck in my stomach and simply morn the loss of my beautiful - beautiful butt. Time to let it go!

The truth is I will never have that perfect body back. I just need to remind myself every now and again, that I am relatively fit and very healthy. I look nice in my clothes, and nobody (enter Jon my husband) ever complains about my naked body. It is all in my head - or mirror.

And those of you out there who really have weight struggles and body image issues, think of me, I lost those 40 pounds, I now fit into a size 6 and look pretty good in my clothes. And you know what, I still fell prey to the lie that it wasn't enough. But it is enough, and whether you are at your ideal weight and body shape, or whether your perfect size 8 has been transformed by life...you are enough. Let's take the pressure off...and stay out of the magazine aisles at the supermarket!

Putting on Make-up with a Mini-Paint Roller

2010-03-16T19:24:00.000-04:00

Ok - I have not tried this make-up so it could be the greatest makeup invention since the Egyptians discovered eye-liner. BUT, just the idea of using a mini paint roller to put on makeup kinda irks me.

I am a great believer of being the greatest you. Every aspect of your life is valuable and significant - even how you look and dress. Your face really is the greatest reflector of who your are and it is important. Look, there is nothing wrong in wanting to be the most beautiful you. Shooot, I don't go anywhere without wearing concealer under my eyes. Whenever I go without it, someone always puts a comforting hand on my arm and says lovingly, "Cj, is everything ok?" I finally put 2 and 2 together and realized the bags under my eyes were shouting to the world that I was depressed and tired. So now, Cj always slaps on some concealer.

My goal is to look healthy, happy and pretty darn good for a 40something with three little kids. And the right combo of sleep, make-up and spanx helps me get there. But the words thrown around to get us to buy - Flawless - Perfect - Airbrushed, just leave a bad taste in my mouth. Come on - do we really want to look airbrushed? The implication is that we have to cover-up what isn't perfect. The fact of the matter is nothing is perfect, especially anything on the human body - so when does the cover-up stop? Am I wrong? Don't we as women want to be the greatest expression of our individuality and unique-ness?

But Flawless? Look how they totally erased Evangeline Lily's freckles. (She's the female lead in LOST). Now, if she wants to cover-up her freckles because she doesn't like them, more power to her...but to erase them in a beauty ad kinda gets me. Anyone who follows LOST knows the woman has a ton of freckles and to be honest I think she looks better with them intact.

It's not the make-up - its the message that bothers me. Remember when Self Magazine put a picture of a skinny Kelly Clarkson on the cover. Immediately people knew it was a fix. The ironic and most insulting thing about it was the subtitle, "You at Your Best!" Evidently to be our best we should lie to the masses and appear to be perfect. I DON'T BUY IT! I look just fine in a bit of concealer and lip gloss.

cj

Kill Superwoman...

2010-03-16T11:22:00.000-04:00

That's right, I want Superwoman dead dammit! Ok, not the League of Justice Superwoman, actually she is focused on one thing and that's her heroine-ism. I am talking about the dreaded and bogus concept that we, as woman, can do it all and be good at all we do. There are these exceedingly outrageous expectations levied on us, from a myriad of sources, and we work ourselves into insanity trying to live up to them. For goodness sake, it has taken me a full year to start blogging, because I was intimidated by the thousands of blogs out there in cyber universe. Before I could even get started, I thought I was already doing a terrible job! How crazy is that! I wrote and re-wrote, deleted and started again...and again...and again. I was stuck. Stuck because my blog had to be perfect - it had to be SUPER!

The specter of superwoman doesn't just hang over our ambitions. That sneaky devil tries to infiltrate every aspect of our lives, by corrupting our perception of ourselves. Being superwoman is a lofty standard to live up to and when we fall short it can catapult us into a bleak cycle of disappointment and guilt. All because our houses, our wardrobes, our checking accounts and our boobs are all less than super. Years ago, it was no big deal that after a certain age your boobs hung down to your waistline. You just rolled them up, stuffed them in a bra and kept on going. Nowadays if the boobage is not playboy ready - you’re just downright butt ugly!

I am going to kill superwoman, that crazy chick with the perky boobs, orderly children, and spotless home. Not because I'm jealous - No. I am killing superwoman because she has been telling me all of my adult life that I am not enough. Say your prayers Superwoman, your days are numbered!

Has HGTV ruined your house?

2010-03-15T19:08:00.001-04:00

I love those decorating and craft shows as much as the next guy, but if you are not careful your house will end up a hot mess. (I like using phrases I hear on TV!) They lull you into a false sense of security, making you think that you too can make a chandelier out of old jewelry. I can't tell you the hundreds of dollars I have spent on crap from hardware and craft stores to "beautify" my home. For goodness sake, I bought a hot glue gun so I could make no-sew pillows out of old shirts. I couldn't figure out how to use the thing so it sits useless in my husband's tool box. From time to time I consider throwing it out, but the images of those no-sew pillows haunt me. To tell the truth, they have been haunting me for - gulp - over 5 years.

There is also the terrible matter of my boys' bedroom. Oy! My oldest wanted a rock and roll room, so I got the fine idea of painting little stars all over their bedroom wall and a great big star behind their bunkbeds. It ended up a drippy, smear-y, ugly mess. But the worst is my mural behind the beds...who knew I didn't know how to paint a gigantuan star. There is now a blob of bright blue paint on their wall that is in an inexplicable shape. Some rock and roll room.

I do blame my mess and wasted money on HGTV and other McGyver type shows that float around on cable. Had it not been for me being weak and falling into the DIY trap, I would have remembered that I absolutely hate painting, have no use whatsoever for a glue gun, and can't sew worth a damn! (Did I mention sewing up the armhole on a the vintage coat she bought from me?) Those shows made it all look so EASY, duping me into believing that even I could do it. Whatever!! From now on I am sticking to what I really want to do! Making no-sew shirt pillows is NOT one of them.

Beware of The Truth Assassin

2010-03-12T21:54:00.001-05:00

You know who the truth assassin is? That little voice in your head that keeps trying to do away with the real you. You know the voice, the one that tries to shake your confidence by saying things like:

"I told you - you are going to fail!"
"Your butt isn't poufy and round enough"
"You know, your kids are really kinda stupid"
"Oh my goodness. Your house is just so....ughh!"
"You're not doing it right so stop wasting your time."

The truth assassin creeps up on us Ninja style trying to force our dreams and goals to surrender. We may not notice the whispers at first, but they multiply until they have taken our brains hostage. Before we know it we start trying to fix everything that is wrong with us, and the things we love take a back seat to insanity. I can't tell you how many of my years I have spent trying to be perfect at something I didn't really give a damn about, all because of buying into something sooo not ME - but that's another blog.

Honestly, everyday there is a battle in our minds between the truth of who we are and those lies that keep us stuck in those daily ruts that we hate. Without even knowing it - we absorb those influences around us that constantly tell us we aren't measuring up. We don't buy into all the lies, just the ones that strike a nerve. For me it’s those TV shows that ruthlessly parade those have it all types before me. The married women that look really good, exercise, have stupendous careers and can resolve all their kids’ issues with a single heartfelt conversation. All with time left over to hang out with her girls at the neighborhood martini bar and have awesome sex with her husband. Oy!

If we are not aware, these influences peck their way into how we perceive ourselves. They morph and transform into becoming the most influential voice of all, the truth assassin, the voice in our own head.

But come on, we can take her. It's easy - just start asking the right questions. The next time your inner player-hater says to you,”You should be like her..." Don't ask why because you will get a multitude of answers that will compel you to take a very long nap (or a very long drink). Instead, square your shoulders and ask”Who the hell says so!" Say it with confidence and gusto, with some "swagger" as the hip kids say today. Trust me, that truth assassin will shut up - at least for a while.