RIP Brain

I mourn the loss of my brain. I really did at one time be a functioning, responsible adult who could easily read directions and actually show-up to scheduled appointments. However, that individual is no longer with us. She is gone. She has left in her wake this new person who is very flighty, forgetful, and at times, irresponsible. I am not sure if the old one will ever return and this of course, is the most frightening thought of all. My dear hubby, Classic Old Spice, is a dentist. He has complained to me at times about patients who do not show up to their scheduled appointments to which I have always replied in a rather heated manner that it is not difficult to simply pick up the phone and call. After all, they are taking up the spot of someone else who might actually show-up to said appointment. "Irresponsible and inconsiderate" is what I mutter often followed with an unasked-for suggestion that he charge a $50 no-show fee because of course, that would help people to remember to show up to their appointment by golly. Sadly enough, this has come back to bite me in the arse because currently to date, I have missed three appointments since September. This may not sound like a lot but to someone who has never missed an appointment, this is shattering. I worry that Bubba Boo's ENT will no longer see him as a patient. I am certain my chiropracter, whose appointments I have missed not once but twice, thinks I am the supreme flake and I have had to eat a lot of crow and just nod sympathetically when Classic Old Spice complains of the no-shows. I am one of them now and we are bonded - I can't betray their trust as we appointment-skippers have to stick together. In fact, I recently was a no-show for my own dental appointment with my husband and he informed me that he is passing my charts on to another local dentist - he has officially kicked me out of his practice. Here's another scary example: I was recently diagnosed with an eye problem and my opthamologist (I made it to that appointment) prescribed a strong medication. After taking it for five days, I began to develop a rash on my neck so I promptly quit taking it and called his office the next day. I was told to halve the dosage and I should be good. I shared this story with Classic Old Spice and he asked the original dosage. We then moved on and talked about what we would do for lunch. Two hours later as we were standing at our kitchen sink, he looked at the directions on my prescription and realized that the half-dosage that I started to take was really what I was supposed to be taking all along. No wonder I broke out in a rash - I was taking twice the daily dosage I was supposed to take. As you can only imagine, Classic Old Spice simply thought this was hilarious. Just yesterday, I attempted to purchase my Clinique Touch Base for Eyes that I have been wearing now for four years. I love it and it is a staple - back in the day, I could rattle that color out in my sleep. As I stood in Nordstrom with hubby I could not produce the name of the color. Even worse, when the sales rep began to name them, none of them sounded familiar. I had to look at the one I thought could be it to determine if in fact it was. Just plain scary.
The list goes on - this was just this past week. Things like this are a common occurrence now. I recently read a quote by Louisa May Alcott (author of "Little Women") that said "she has read too many books and it has addled her brain." I think the appropriate term for me would be "she has had too many children in too short of time and it has permenantly altered her brain." Good-bye, sound mind. May you return at some point and if not, well, I won't remember you anyway.

Pampering?

I am not exactly sure at which point I began to lower my standards of what is appropriate appearance-wise for myself before I leave the house but I do know that somewhere along the way, this has indeed occurred. Back in the good old days, I would not have even considered leaving the house in the morning without a shower (which includes washing my hair), makeup applied maybe not perfectly but way more precise than it is now, and clothes somewhat unwrinkled and clean. Back then, I did know what the word “pampering” meant—I actually use to take time for manicures, pedicures, and a facial every now and then. I loved time in a spa and looked forward to treating myself to these luxuries if not on a regular basis, certainly more often than now. Fast forward four years to the present and I must admit there are moments when I catch a glance at myself in a passing mirror or window and I chuckle—the new me often has hair that has not been washed for three, maybe four days, my makeup consists of haphazardly-applied eyeliner and mascara (on a good day), and I usually can’t tell you the last time I showered. I also shudder to admit that there are times when I want to wear something that I have not had time to wash yet and I simply pluck it out of the dirty clothes pile, give it a sniff and if it is OK, I slide into without hesitation. Of course, writing this makes me think of the guys I used to know in college who did this as a regular part of their routine, but they were college guys—not me! However, somewhere along the line of this parenthood game (especially which each subsequent baby) my standards lessened and I could focus on what really mattered. Yes, I do miss those old days sometimes. I miss showering like the rest of the world does in the morning before they start their days. I miss having clothes that were regularly laundered, ironed, and stored away perfectly in my closet awaiting their next usage. I miss taking time to apply makeup in a non-hurried manner and I certainly miss the regularity of the mani’s and pedi’s I used to treat myself to back in the days of yore. This all being said, I must admit that if I were given a free time travel ticket, I would not go back to those days ever again. Those days did not include giggles so sweet that you had to stop what you were doing and simply bask in the joyous sound. Nobody cried when I left the house and nobody screamed with joy and jumped up and down when I returned home. Nobody ran to me with crocodile tears in their eyes when their feelings were hurt or they needed some love after a boo-boo. I did not have any little people saying cute things that made me run to my notebook to record their phrases so I could share them when they got older. Life now is so much richer, so much more fulfilled and so much more steeped in love. Pampering has taken on a new meaning now—I am pampered in giggles, kisses, hugs, and sometimes tears. I am pampered in knowing that I am making a difference to three little beings who will hopefully grow-up to be God-loving adults who strive to make their world just a little bit better. I am pampered in knowing that as I age, it is not the outside that really makes such a difference but instead what resides in your heart that will set the world on fire. Pampering is relative and I must admit that I prefer this new form of pampering. This being said, a mani/pedi every now and then never hurt anyone...

Just Call Me Oscar

I am a grouch. A big one. Since I was awakened by my six-month-old alarm clock this morning, I have been nothing but grumpy and on the verge of emotional collapse. I am not exactly sure why as it would make perfect sense if my friend, Dottie, was about to pay her monthly visit or I had a restless night of little sleep - neither is the case. I am just a big grump...I woke up on the wrong side of the bed and have been acting like Cybil since 7:30 this morning. I am cheery and calm one moment then I launch into crankiness over the smallest of things the next and I am certain I have done long-term psychological damage to my children. Missy Moo commented that she thought I was a little grouchy (understatement) and of course, I felt horrible so I apologized for mommy's lack of patience and told her I would work on changing my heart. This being the language I use with her, she understood completely and told me she would forgive me and, gasp, that she loved me very much. Of course this made me think of the loyalty our dog, Ellie, exhibits even when she is treated not so nicely - it seems when I am at my ugliest self, Missy Moo can sense it and will say "I love you, Mommy" which makes me feel worse for just having launched into hysterics because she did not pick up her fish game - for the hundreth time that day. Bubba Boo is at that oh so difficult age of wanting to play with only things that are dangerous or could make a gigantic mess (yes, in a house full of toys) so I feel as though I am constantly saying "no" to him. I have read a million positive parenting books about how to redirect him or use positive language (as in instead of saying "No feet on the table" you would say "your feet belong on your chair") but quite frankly, I don't see it working any better and by 5 p.m. I am done. So basically what I do is play policeman all day and rotate the little things I find throughout the house to their rightful spot and today, I just wanted a day off. Don't get me wrong - I love my children and my husband more than anything. I literally would give my life for any of them. But for some reason, today I felt like I just wanted to get in my car and drive. For a long time. I am certain that no one told me this mommy gig was so difficult but of course, if we all shared this with childless women, our population would end promptly because let's face it, there are some not-so-glamourous days. When I was working full-time when Missy Moo was six months old until she was 14 months old, I was distraught over the fact that I could not be with her all of the time. I envisioned play dates and lunch dates with friends who had children of similar ages as Missy Moo. I dreamed of mornings at KinderMusic and Gymboree and of taking long walks along the Monon Trail after we had practiced our alphabet and played with Play-Dough. Of course, there are many days in which this stuff does happen but I never envisioned the days/moments of utter hysteria when you think you just might die if you have to pretend that the "dancing girlfriends" are really here with us right now (these are Missy Moo's imaginary friends. Long story.) Being a stay-at-home mommy is all I have ever wanted to be and I am the happiest I have ever been in my life at this moment right now - so why on earth am I such a crankpot? I have so many blessings and know that many would look at my life and say "Oh puhleeeeeeeze, get a grip". I must say that I have to agree with them but then I also must say that I am human. So as I sit here and have a glass of Chardonnay and eat peantut M&M's, I liken it much to the tantrums Missy Moo and Bubba Boo throw out - sometimes mommy's have to throw tantrums, too. It is often not pretty and the guilt that comes afterwards is enough to think I should hand my children over to someone else to raise but it happens. I am not proud of it nor would I have ever thought, when I was childless and when I only had one child, that I would have days that I just wanted out, but this is the reality. Blessed I am and know it - human I am and can't help it. Tomorrow is a new day. Thank God.

The Sweet Curse of Motherhood

I can't watch the news anymore. Or read a newspaper. Or have an intelligent discussion about the topic of war. I cannot hold my tongue when I see a mommy or a daddy tug a little too hard on a child's arm at Wal-Mart and I will risk being accused of a being a pervert if I see a child who looks like a hug could brighten their little life even for just a moment. I am now a mother and have realized how deeply and intricately this gift, though sometimes a curse, weaves through the nooks and crannies of your being. There is no question that I could quite possibly be the biggest idiot on the planet concerning current events mainly because it is never quiet long enough in my household to hear the complete coverage of any news story so it's a bit like playing the game of telephone - I only pick up bits and pieces of a story and before I know it, I could cover the beat at the "National Enquirer" with just a little bit of truth to said story. Secondly, and probably the main reason why I can't tune in, is that I just simply cannot take it. I melt when I hear stories of 14 year olds shot and killed for no reason other than the fact that they were either in the wrong place at the wrong time or were so lost and lonely that they looked to violent street gangs to be their family. I can't help but conjure the image of the now-deceased 14 (14!!) year old as a baby being fed his first round of vegetables or watching him roll over for the first time. I picture the mother who might have played "This Little Piggy" with his chubby, tiny toes and laughed as her little one let out the giggle that is absolutely the most wonderful sound on the planet. I realize that for many of these tragic cases there may not have been a mommy or a daddy who adored and treasured that child in the way I do my own but I have to believe that the biological response that many, and I would venture to say most, of us feel is present more often than not. I am not so naive that I think all children are raised in loving and healthy environments but my dream is that they are and now there is a shattered mommy or daddy who grieves the broken dream of a life that was just too darn short. If there is no one grieving for them, I do. Every sad case is someone's son or daughter and by my own personal definition of a mommy this, in my own roundabout way, makes them mine as well. I once read that we as mothers have not just a responsibility of raising our own children but every child on the planet as well. When I first stumbled across this passage, I had to reread it several times to be sure I was understanding the author's message correctly as how could I possibly have an impact on a child being raised in tribal Africa? My favorite author, Anne Lamott, wrote a book about writing entitled Bird by Bird. She explains that she came to the title after watching her father, who was also a writer, attempt to assist her brother, who had procrastinated on doing a school project on birds until the night before it was due. The said brother sat at the kitchen table with books and notes spread all around him and was utterly overwhelmed and frustrated - he had no idea where to begin because the task was just too daunting. Anne's father simply said, "Son, you just take it bird by bird." What a great idiom for our lives - if we focus on impacting child by child, then maybe, just maybe this chain of goodwill could reach a child in tribal Africa. Quite possibly there is some truth to the cliche statement that one person truly can make a difference and it all starts with the simple emotion of compassion. When one becomes pregnant, no one mentions that you will soon release your heart to the outside of your body where it will stay for the rest of your life. I can't watch the news or read a newspaper because I value that person's life in a way I could not possibly begin to fathom until I had given a life of my own. I am certain this is the reason that police officers instruct children to look for another mommy or daddy in a store who has children if they were to become lost because that person will not leave the lost child until his or her parents are found. We do this because we know how scared our own children would be if they were to become lost and we want to alleviate some of that child's anxiety while at the same time making sure that he or she is safe. I am sure there are childless people who would do the same thing for a lost child which brings me to wonder "could other people reach this level of compassion without becoming a mother"? Most likely, however, this is what did it for me. This is what sealed the deal and made me a card-carrying member of the "weeper's club". I shed tears for the broken hearts, for the hurt feelings, for the lives cut too short, for the children living in violence and hate every day. I long to have the resources to build a home large enough to house the unloved children, the ones whose photos are not on anyone's desk or bureau or whose artwork does not adorn any refrigerators, and give them the life their sweet innocent selves deserve. I can't do it alone but I know I am not alone in my emotions - there is an army of mommy's out there who believe the same as me. One of my very favorite quotes of all-time was said by the ever-so-wise Helen Keller: "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart." So true, Helen, so true. And felt they are.

New Writings

Hello, all - I am back into writing a little more regularly now so I plan to do more postings...Yes, I know I have said this before but hey, give a girl some grace...These next few postings are coming from the newsletter I write for my MOPS group (Mothers of Preschoolers) so you will see a more spiritual side of me since this is a faith-based group. I try to tie my subject into our theme for the day and add a relevant verse from the Bible so enjoy! I am continuing to write in both the secular and non-secular so don't pigeon-hole me! :) Enjoy!

The Stockings WERE Hung

‘Tis the season has officially begun and as always, the day after Thanksgiving my hubby and I decided it was time to pull out the Christmas decorations and get the tree up so the holiday cheer could spread throughout our family. It was like a walk down memory lane as I unpacked the many decorations and ornaments that made me think of people I love or events, such as the first Christmas with my hubby and “Baby’s First Christmas” ornaments, that forever changed my life for the better. I am a lover of traditions—my mother always made sure that I, as an only child, had plenty of holiday traditions and this desire has carried over to me as well. Needless to say, now that my oldest is almost four years old, it is becoming very fun to discuss the holidays with her and begin our own family traditions. With this in mind, we put the tree up on Friday afternoon but waited until Missy Moo was home (she was visiting my mother) to decorate it. After our pizza dinner, we all retreated to the living room where we had holiday music on the iPod (my husband is particularly fond of “Mele Kalikimaka” so this kicked off our tree-decorating event) and a fire burning in our fireplace—it was all very “Norman Rockwell-ish”. Or so I thought…
Quarrels began to break out over various ornaments (Bubba Boo wanted to look at the Cinderella ornament and Missy Moo would not allow this because, God forbid, he is a boy and boys don’t look at Cinderella ornaments) and where they would be placed. Bubba Boo, having just mastered the word “ball”, began to pelt the glass Christmas balls around the living room while delighting in the fact that he could say the word associated with the object and Ellie, our five year old yellow Labrador Retriever proceeded to let out what we like to call “green smoke” after a particularly tough day on her digestive system. As I realized that my Norman Rockwell moment was just not really like I had planned it to be, I remembered that I did have a fun new tradition tucked in the closet called “The Elf on a Shelf”. It is a cute story accompanied by an elf that sits on a mantle, or anywhere else, in your house and I thought this would save the moment for sure. Hubby and I rallied everyone up to take baths and put on jammies because we have a “guest” coming (the elf) so they did so eagerly and happily. When it came time for us all to pile on the couch and read the story, it was wonderful—just as I had imagined. After the story, I then got up to place the elf on the mantle and Bubba Bool followed me, curiosity in tow. The stockings were held in place by wrought iron stocking holders in various Christmas shapes and Bubba Boo, with the curiosity of a 19 month old, pulled on one of them only to send the iron Christmas Tree stocking holder straight down on top of his little face that had been looking up at it so innocently. Blood began to spurt, tears began to fall, and screams could be heard, I am sure, for miles. Not quite how I had planned to end our evening, but after I got the children down for the night, I had to chuckle at the quote for the day from my motherhood inspirations calendar I purchased from Jill Savage (love it and highly recommend it) - Julie Barnhill stated “Motherhood ushers in (often with trumpets) a dawning awareness that things just aren’t going to go as we’d first planned or imagined.” Doesn’t God have the funniest sense of humor? Bubba Boo now has two big gashes on his left cheek - just in time for our family Christmas card picture! Regardless, that little face is beautiful no matter what so it will have to suffice for this year and make a great story in the future.

“For unto us a child is born…” Isaiah 9:6

Thank you, Thank you, Thank you...

During this period in time in which we all reflect on what we are thankful for in our lives, I find my mind wandering to one of my favorite authors, Anne Lamott, a sometimes controversial, VERY liberal writer who tells it like it is with such gifted use of the English language that I can oversee some of her ideological views that clash with my own. Anne is a devoted Christian and regularly attends a gospel church in Marin County, California. She is in constant conversation, or so it seems, with God and I must admit, her faith is such a solid rock to her that you can’t help but find yourself trying to focus on doing the same. Two years ago, I had the pleasure of attending a lecture she gave at St. Luke’s United Methodist Church in Indianapolis and a small group break-out session the following day with just Anne. To say it made me love her even more is an understatement—there were so many great pieces of wisdom that flew out of her mouth that I decided to stop trying to write it all down and just focus on listening and being in the moment. Perhaps the most wonderful thing I walked away with was the simple prayer she says throughout the day of “Thank you, thank you, thank you…” I realized that, hey—I can do that! Prayer does not necessarily have to be a time in which we isolate ourselves from everyone and sit down to meditate though it is certainly wonderful when I am able to find the space to do so. Prayer and being thankful to God can come while rinsing off the breakfast/snack/lunch/snack/dinner dishes or while we fold another load of laundry (assuming that you fold laundry, of course!). It can be as simple as talking to God about the difficult concept of grace and how God gives us so much that we cannot possibly fathom his ability to do so. It can be while we are changing yet another stinky diaper and it certainly can come when we are drying tears from a skinned knee or hurt feelings. Thanking God is easy to do when we remember that he is always there—his omnipresence allows us to know we are not alone when we think we are and assures us that he does indeed have a plan for us. The other aspect of this prayer that I love is just the sheer gratitude that saying “thank you, thank you, thank you” expresses to God. It is a short breath prayer but yet communicates so much. You don’t even have to list specific things you are grateful for as God knows your heart and He knows what you value and cherish in your life. So during this sometimes overly-scheduled holiday season when we feel a little overwhelmed by cookies that need to be baked, turkeys that need to be cooked, and potatoes that need to be whipped, let’s remember to stop and simply say “thank you, thank you, thank you.” After all, to put things in perspective, we are all far richer than anyone could ever imagine. I once read that if you don’t ever have to worry about where your next meal will come from, you are blessed beyond belief—wouldn’t it be so wonderful if we all just remembered that simple thought throughout the busy holiday season? Breathe in, breathe out, and “thank you, thank you, thank you.”
In everything give thanks; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.
1 Thessalonians 5:18