You are much stronger than you would ever believe.

My mother was full of advice. At the time, I’d have said she was full of something else, but in retrospect, I see it was advice after all. I’m now taking my turn, offering advice and certain my children are hearing it as the something else they assume I’m full of. Recently, I’ve recalled some of my mother’s advice to me and in my own head, I still hear it in her voice. Which helps.

Of late, I’ve needed some advice as things have been strange, strained, and emotionally draining. So I fall back to the one person who loved me the most and recall just what she might have said to me. There are many, many things she would have said, but one has bubbled to the surface and has become my gentle reminder said quietly in her voice, in my head, whenever I need it.

You are much stronger than you would ever believe.

I’ve said this to my kids, each of them, at different times and for different reasons. All of us go through a time, or many times, that we’re just not sure which step to take next. Mom’s simple advice always meant to me that even when I doubted myself, my judgement, my ability to face things, even at those times, all I really needed to do was relax and remember that I could handle it, whatever it was. 

Because I am much stronger than I can even believe.

I don’t believe I’ve handled crisis, change, or tragedy better than anyone else. I don’t think I have a special set of skills that makes it easier for me to see the good in the worst of situations. But I know that in my darkest times, I have that voice in my head. She never lied to me while she was alive, no reason to doubt her now. I’m so thankful for that quiet, confident, comforting voice: “You are much stronger than you would ever believe”. 

The Porcelain Anniversary?

This summer is my 18th Wedding Anniversary. According to Hallmark, I’m exactly between crystal and china on the anniversary gift scale. In terms of what that means I should be gifting my husband, I’m a little lost. If you Google “What is between crystal and china?” you get the distance between two towns in Texas. That didn’t seem quite right. So I Googled “What gift is appropriate for an 18th anniversary?” and low and behold, I’ve learned that porcelain is the traditional 18th anniversary material. Porcelain. As in commode seat porcelain? Because that really doesn’t seem quite right either. The website The Nest recommends a porcelain vase or shave set.

Umm, no.

So, I’ve been thinking. What’s the right thing to do that signifies the start of our 18th year together? I thought about all the things that have changed in 18 years. A few more kids, cars, houses, surgeries, pounds, and lots of time at games and practices. Vacations come and gone, holidays, weddings, funerals, all the marking time sorts of things. Those are obvious. I’ve changed in 18 years. I’m sure. Not just because I’m older, but because life has softened me in some ways and hardened me in others. He’s changed, too.

I distinctly recall a conversation early in our marriage on one particular night when we compared our relationship to building a house. We said we had a good, strong foundation because we loved each other. The rest we would build brick by brick, or even rebuild if necessary.

Ah, youth. So cute. We thought love was all we would ever really need and that it would always be there.

It. Was. Not.

There were certainly times in the past 17 years that not only did we not love each other like we did that night, we didn’t like each other much either. Looking back I understand that what we thought was a foundation built with love (ick, that even feels ridiculously too sweet to write), anyway what we thought was that was really faith. We believed in each other. I believed that he was a good man. He believed I was a good person, too. The rest of it didn’t matter.

Wedding vows are so long and complex: Do you take this man to be your husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part? I don’t even know what that sounded like on my wedding day, I’m sure I was thinking about the caterer and wondering if dinner would be right. 

Now 17 years have passed. I look at those vows with a retrospect that provides some clarity to their meaning. Do you take this person as they are right now? Do you accept him with all the things about him that you think now are adorable but will at some point decide are incredibly exhausting? Are you prepared to forgive him for anything really stupid that happens by accident or at least without malicious intent? Are you ok with the idea that he won’t always think you are the most beautiful girl in the room? Are you willing to be his second choice for entertainment if the plans with his “guys” fall apart AND are you willing to be thrown under the bus when he wants to opt out of plans with his “guys”? Wedding vows aren’t for determining if the other person is right for you, they are for deciding if you are ready to be married. 

The reality of marriage is that no one is ever the perfect person for you any more than you are perfect for them.

At the 18 year mark I can say with confidence that I’ve been married long enough to fall in love with my husband a few times. Once when we met, again when I met him as a father, again when I understood him as a professional, again when I realized he could forgive my ocean of imperfections, again when I knew he would be there with me even when our kids were gone. I suspect it will happen a few more times before our lives together end. I have that faith in our strong foundation.

I Googled porcelain. It’s defined as a strong, ceramic material, fired at a low temperature, then glaze fired at a very high temperature. Now it makes more sense why it’s the 18th anniversary material. By now the marriage has been burned at a low temperature and then fired to its glossy sheen at high heat. I’d imagine some ceramics don’t make it through the fiery stage to get to a high gloss finish. 

I won’t buy you a porcelain shave kit for our anniversary gift dear. But I will promise to hang with you through any high temperatures that we face. I know you are a good man. I know I’ll keep falling in love with you over and over as you change or I do. I know the next 18 years will be challenging and fulfilling all at the same time. I promise to take you to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part. And this time, I even know what all of that means.

A Mother’s Day Pact

Mother to Mother, let me wish you a Happy Mother’s Day, and allow me to give you a gift. It’s not a massage or a handmade card or even a nice dinner. As a matter of fact, it’s the antithesis of most of those things. I’m giving you the gift that will keep on giving, but you’ll have to work hard to accept it.

I’m giving you a break. I’m giving us all a break. I’m telling you we aren’t our mothers and certainly not their mothers before them and we don’t have to do everything for every one with a smile on our perfectly age-defied faces and zumba-classed ass.

I recently ran into a friend of mine in the market and we both were embarrassed to be there. How dare we run out of food in our homes. The horror of our families being forced to wake without Pop Tarts. We both sort of apologized, “No food, can you believe it, we’re just completely out, we suck”. Somehow we were terrible mothers because in the midst of our full time jobs, full time taxi service to our kids, full time keeping our own lives together, full time keeping our husbands interested in our over-40 selves, full time shovelling down a Big Mac on the way to the next thing we’re late to volunteer to do we ran out of two items in our otherwise well-stocked kitchens but somehow that means no one can survive. Fuck that noise.

The days of wanting it all, all at the same time and all of it perfectly done are sooooo over. We owe it to ourselves and each other to kill the idea that if we eat out more than we have dinner at home, that some how means we are less than we should be. So I’ve compiled a list of things for consideration that, I think, are expectations we have to agree to just get over. Women are always harder on themselves and each other than we should be, so let’s make this a Mother’s Day Pact where we agree, collectively, that we won’t pass judgement on these expectations:

1. Dinner. Maybe meals in general. So long as your family isn’t starving, let’s just call that a success. If that means cereal after a late night game, so be it. Even if it means a DQ Blizzard as dinner every once in a while, honestly, at the end of the day, do whatever gets you to the next meal when necessary.

2. The House. Like the song says, sometimes you’ve just got to Let It Go. Forgive yourself for disgusting floors when that means you get to go to bed instead of staying up late to finish one last load of laundry. Beyond the occasional pig pen feeling, let’s give up on perfection for a bit. Unless your degree is in interior design, I don’t expect magazine-spread kind of wall hangings and figurines perched on floating shelves. Relax. Take that crap down, it’s just more to dust.

3. The Game. (Performance, Play, Show, Whatever) It’s really okay to miss something the center of your universe is doing tonight. You really don’t have to see every at bat to be a good mom. As a matter of fact, consider the joy your child will have in telling you the story of his/her big game-winning hit. If you see every one in real time, you’ll be stealing your child of that amazing experience. You’re welcome.

4. You, the Head to Toe You. I’m not saying let yourself and your body turn to complete crap, I’m just saying as a Happy Mother’s Day gift, I’m offering you the proper perspective. If you’re going to compare your body/face/hair to someone else, at least make sure it’s a regular body/face/hair someone. Which leaves out anyone who is paid to look good, anyone who has a biology that makes them a freak of nature, anyone actively in transformation (meaning those friends of yours that just started running/zumba/carb counting), and finally, anyone that did not graduate in your decade. Relax ladies, you look fine.

5. The Ghost of Mothers Past. I think we’re all guilty of a rose colored memory of our childhoods or those of our friends. We remember the perfect mom that had the cookies ready or the crafty costumes or the fun van rides or the cool moms that dressed well and let their daughters wear the latest fashions. We remember feeling loved and protected and never seeing our own mothers crack under pressure. The reality though, is that’s just what we choose to remember and it’s really more of a compilation of a mother over time, not ALL THE TIME. Our mothers didn’t face the same challenges we face nor did they have the same conveniences. They weren’t expected to be all of the same things that we are expected to be, nor will our daughters have the same experience when they are mothers. So for the sake of our daughters, let’s not compare ourselves to the June Cleaver versions of motherhoods gone by. Your kids don’t care if you are the kind of mother to them that your mother was to you. They don’t even know what that would look like so don’t make it so important to you that you can’t be the kind of mother that your children actually need.

Finally, enjoy Mother’s Day by patting yourself on the back and reflecting on your successes as a parent. You haven’t killed them yet, right? I mean that’s something. Start there if you must and review the Mother’s Day Pact. I’ve given you a break. Give it to another mother you know. And then relax, you look fine.

If you’re easily offended, don’t read this.

I read a blog this morning and it sort of spoke to this nagging thought I’ve been de-constructing recently about our society (please say that word with a heavy British accent). At the risk of having someone question why I think I’m an expert on society (which I don’t) or at least smother me with my own instances of failure (which I’m aware of thanks), I have this to say:

Expect to be offended.

Not necessarily right now. Unless you are truly faint of heart in which case, abort, close this window, stop reading. Whatever your safe word is, pretend you’ve heard it and get out. I mean in general, over the course of time, during your travels, while you are reading, watching, living and breathing in a world filled with people, you should expect to be offended and sometimes outrageously so. Get past it. No one AT ALL can expect to exist without being offended at some point in time. I remember the face of my 3 year old when I informed him he would not be going on the bus with his brother to school as he was not yet old enough. He was highly offended. To which I said, “Suck it up buttercup, it could get worse”.

I have watched many a movie that offended me by it’s sheer stupidity (Super Bad ring a bell?). I walked out of the theatre. Offended no more. I have heard several Eminem songs and while it makes my son crazy, I’m offended by his lack of creativity more than his language (get your own music people, stop “sampling” from the 70s). So I don’t listen to his music. Problem solved.

I have had insensitive people make comments about me, to me, and around me about personal issues that hurt me very deeply. I don’t talk to those people any more. Or at least I don’t expect to talk to them without being offended again. I have had things said to me by people I love that were offensive on many levels. I don’t expect that every human in the world will at all times agree with me or even at most times say things that won’t bother me.

Here’s a reality though. In some cases, what has been said or done to me that has offended me the MOST has often times been true, fair, and even for my own good on occasion. Not always. But often enough that I’ve learned to recognize the possibility that I should suck it up, buttercup.

Donald Sterling’s comments were offensive  and disturbing. I’d suggest that the fact that these comments were made to Sterling’s girlfriend while there is still a Mrs. Sterling is (while unnoticed by the media), equally offensive and disturbing. I’m as bothered by the idea that he is parading around a girlfriend while still married as I am that he is arrogant and ignorant enough to feel he can hold any part of humanity as less than equal. I mean seriously…What. The. Hell???

However, I have a choice. I can decide that while he is rich enough to own a basketball team, he’s clearly not smart enough to influence my social belief system. And I can publicly cheer on Magic Johnson’s attempt to buy the team away from Sterling thereby booting him from the court. Go Magic, just don’t pay him too much and make sure to make him say Thank You.

When someone does something to offend me, I have every right to be angry, hurt, and respond. TO THE PERSON THAT PISSED ME OFF. I get to raise whatever brand of hell I like to be clear that I’m unhappy and unwilling to forgive. What I don’t get to do, is insist that it never happen again. I have no control over someone’s behavior or comments. I can decide not to get upset any more, though.

My fear is that we have come to a place where we believe that we should not be offended; that our belief system, our morality, should never be tested or challenged and that is a scary idea. So much change that has happened in the world has started with someone challenging an idea, offending a theory. Civil rights, women’s rights, marriage equality, gender equality, new music styles, new economic ideals, the list is endless. My great-grandparents would have been highly offended by the likes of Martin Luther King, Jr. Thankfully, his freedom to say what others didn’t like was stronger than their urge to remain un-offended.

Suck. It. Up. Buttercup. If we want people to go boldly where no one has gone before, we’re going to have to suffer through some idiots making it look crazy along the way. We are going to have to be offended. Once so, we can consider the motive, consider the truth, consider what matters to us and decide if it’s going to impact change or just need to be discarded.

Discard what should be discarded. If it’s important enough to react to, do so in whatever way makes things better. If you’re only willing to complain about being offended, just don’t. Your whining offends everyone around you and since you don’t believe in being offended, you don’t have the right to offend others. So there.

In case you’re interested, here’s the other blog: http://www.umbrelr.com/young-mother-giving-kids-dont-blame-her/. Dont be alarmed by the title, she’s not giving her kids away!

I was told recently that, like coffee, I’m an acquired taste. Which I would imagine was intended to offend me or at the very least put me in my place. Ten years ago I might have been both offended and placed. I should add that the comment came from someone who knows me fairly well and has been known to enjoy both offending me and placing me properly. This time he missed the mark. Ten years later I’m not only over it, I kind of secretly appreciate the idea that I’m not right for everyone. I figure it reduces the oncoming traffic. I get frustrated at my 20 something when he won’t edit his Twitter feed because he thinks his future employers should have a good sense of humor; but, for me, that’s exactly it. I don’t mean I’m heading out the door in the morning intending to offend as many people as possible, just that if my wandering about offends you quickly, I’m satisfied with your decision to pass on getting to know me.

I’m comfortably satisfied with being an acquired taste. Ten years later.

The realization has caused me to think about what else I’ve let fall away from me in the last 10 years. What other ways have I changed my outlook, approach, perspective?

My “look”. That sounds very shallow but it’s the word that fits. It encompasses the whole package: hair, weight, face, skin, personal style, if you can see it, I’ve decided I’m ok with however it is. I’d imagine in my lifetime I will lose weight, gain weight, lose weight again. It’s one of those things that I know how to do and on occasion put a little more effort behind when necessary but here’s what I believe: there are good odds that how I am right now will work out to be about average for me for the rest of my days. Whatever.  I don’t expect to be a model any time soon and I was able to marry a pretty cute guy, so I’ll assume what I have will at least keep me from getting posted on the People of WalMart website.

My education. No MBA for me, not now, no thank you. I respect those around me that finished a degree (or two) above me, I really do. I’ve considered it a few times. I’ve looked at how I could fit it into my schedule. Now I’m just over it. I’m fairly sure I could do it if I really had to, I just am certain I’m going to do whatever it takes to make sure I never have to go there. The Bachelor’s degree was necessary. The Master’s degree at this stage just feels like I’m trying to compensate for something. Again, if you’re doing it or going to do it, God love ya, way to go. It’s just not for me.

My kids. I haven’t given up on them, quite the opposite. For the most part, all three are past the point of my really doing serious damage to them. Long-term, anyway. All three are intelligent, kind(ish), well-adjusted guys with goals and futures and friends and while I realize I’m not done advising and ass-kicking, I think I’ve got pretty good odds that all three are fairly solid. The difference, 10 years ago to now, is that I can feel their detachment from the mother ship and I’m resigned to that reality. I have stopped seeing them as a reflection of me (or on me for that matter). I understand that in the end I’m more of a spectator and less of a coach.

My resume, for two reasons. First, I’m finished reading it as a part of introducing myself. My accomplishments and achievements are an important part of my history. But, quite honestly, I think it’s more important that I use that history to remember what I’m capable of rather than to try to convince anyone else what I can do. I’m also finished with doing things I don’t want to do because “it will look great on a resume”. It was a necessary evil even 10 years ago but at this point, I’m comfortable saying no to something that has no other real value. I’m happy to help out and do whatever it takes for the good of the order or just because it needs to get done. I love a good class or a new project just for the sake of adding to my knowledge and experience. But I’m forever finished with worrying about padding or reciting my resume.

Looking over my list of things let go it occurs to me that what I’ve really done is become less worried with the future and more confident that things will be just fine. Every day won’t be rainbows and sunshine, but for the most part and over the long run, I believe I will be fine. If not today, then tomorrow.

Maybe that’s too casual or too naive a way to live, maybe. My attitude may not be the right one and it may not be a popular one. I’m okay with that, too. After all, I am an acquired taste.

Life Lessons from 1983

Notice I am not in this picture but I can assure you, my dress was as close to these as I could possibly get. No risk taking for fashion in the 8th Grade.

The 8th Grade Dinner Dance was the biggest thing I could imagine to end my tenure as a middle schooler. We didn’t all take dates but we did get dressed up in what our mothers would have called our Sunday best but we might have called our I’m not a child any more dress.  It needed to be just sweet enough to satisfy our parents and just sleazy enough to attract the attention of the boys and the jealousy of the girls. In hindsight, it occurs to me that not much changed as we selected new outfits for high school, college and even adult events. 

But the lesson isn’t in the dress or even the balance between sweet and sleazy. My lesson began with the search for the dress. Or more specifically, who was going to search for the dress.

As a teenager, I had my own opinions on style and fashion and, like most teens, these clashed with my mother’s (someday I’ll share the story of the leg warmer war of 1982). So when it came time to begin the search, we’d already had a few arguments as a lead up. Then my crafty and wise mother presented me with an option.

On a sunny Saturday morning she pulled from her wallet a JCPenney credit card. I had seen the card before and I had heard the credit cards are bad speech a few times so I’m sure I let out a small gasp upon its appearance. I was scheduled to go to the mall with friends that day and had agreed to look at dresses and if I found one I really liked we would go back and consider it together. Which I knew meant, I could try it on, mom would say no, find the most horribly baby-fied dress in the store and make me accept it or go home with nothing and be forced to re-wear something I had worn to church already. Horrifying. I’m sure I shuttered at the thought. So when she presented the JCPenney card I was intrigued.

My mother, crafty sly dog that she was, made an eloquent speech about responsibility and trust and consequences and lots of other mom-talk that sounded a lot like Charlie Brown’s teacher until she ended with, ” So I’m giving you this card for today and trusting that you will use it wisely.”. Wait, what? I asked for a review of the speech, certain I had missed some key point that included something like “and so you will never again be allowed to use the phone or walk outside or you will have to take your brother with you to the dance”. Surely she wasn’t just handing over a credit card to a 13-year-old with only the “use it wisely” advice. The review covered the rules:

1. I must select a dress style that my parents would approve of me wearing.
2. I must consider the cost of the dress and use good judgement not to waste the family’s money.
3. I must only purchase a dress; no shoes, no purse, no accessories of any kind.
4. If I followed the rules, I could not only keep the dress, I would be given the chance again to use her credit card for other purchases.
5. If I broke the rules, I could keep the dress but I would NEVER AGAIN be trusted with the credit card.
    (Keep in mind this was 1983 when you could still use your parent’s credit card at a store without being questioned.)  

I was ecstatic. My friends were amazed. Our ride to the mall was in some kind of teenage shoppers high, giddy with the thought that we had infinite money and the freedom to make a choice with no parental input. I floated through the doors of the store and began to tear through the racks to find whatever the hell I wanted thank you. It was awesome.

For a bit.

And then it sucked. The weight of the responsibility began to wear on me more than the dresses I was trying on. Quickly I was discounting dresses on the rack that I would have begged to try on and pleaded to buy had my mom been there. Too short. Too revealing. Too expensive-what is that dress made of, gold? I swore I heard mom’s voice in my head checking off the reasons that certain dresses should be pushed aside. I suddenly realized she had played a cruel trick on me. With no one to plead with by my conscience, I was slowly tiring of the joy of this freedom and felt burdened by the possible consequences of my behavior.

I found a dress that day. Conservative but pretty and well within what I assumed was a fair price. I cautiously slipped into it at home and modelled it for my parents along with presenting the receipt. They were pleased, satisfied with the style and the cost. Mom decided I would need shoes to go with it and probably a nice necklace would complement the neckline. Crafty that Kay, very crafty.

Later she revealed her lesson to me. She wanted me to learn responsibility and consequence. She didn’t know if I would succeed or fail, although she was pulling for me. My mother’s lessons on trust involved giving someone the chance to be trusted and then accepting their actions without further judgement. Either they showed you they were worthy, or not. Either way, you knew what you were dealing with. Mom wanted to see if I had taken a step toward critical thinking and self-control. She needed to know as I prepared to enter high school, if I could be trusted to make decisions based on what I had been taught by her.

I didn’t always make the right choice. Many times throughout high school and beyond, she would glare through me or, worse, be so disappointed that she couldn’t look at me at all. God, that was the worst. Mom didn’t mind if you screwed up something you didn’t know, but if you deliberately made a choice to defy or ignore what you knew was right, that was going to be a long recovery. That was a credit card you would not soon see again.

Spiderman’s Uncle Ben said, “With great power, comes great responsibility”. My mother would suggest that it goes both ways; being responsible can grant you much power. It’s a lesson I’ve tried to show my own children over and over. It’s a lesson I try hard to remember for myself.

I used my mom’s credit card a few more times in my youth, each time it became easier to manage. Looking back, I see lots of times my brother and I were subjected to some other crafty check on our development. That Kay, she was sly.

My guess is she also felt the same burden that at times makes it difficult for me to breathe. As a parent to three young men, I have some mom power. With that, though, I have a responsibility to raise them. Which means lots of behavioral development experiments that their dad and I perform on them pulling for their success, but aware that failure is an option.

Credit cards. Cell phones. Social media. Cars. It’s all a test, really, to see if they are prepared to live with the consequences of their choices. I thought it was terrifying to buy the dress in 83; now I realize it had to be a really long day for my mom, wondering if I would succeed or fail. I know the relief on her face that day was not because the dress was all-right but because I was all-right.

Power and responsibility. Right and privilege. Lessons for my kids, yes; but no less Lessons from 40Something.

Songs to Live For.

Like a lot of things, my ability to sing is somewhere just above cringe worthy and below I’d pay to see that. I’d suggest it improves greatly with a few shots of Grey Goose to either me or my audience but, nonetheless, I’ll admit musical talent isn’t in my wheelhouse. Still, I love music and more than that, I use it to change my mood, set a mood, sometimes even make certain my mood is heard loud and clear.

I’ve written about being divorced. Because I had spent my very short but entire adult life as a married person, I was void of any real adult person identity. Nothing like figuring out who you are with a divorce clouding you and a 3 year old depending on you. So I did what any 23 year old would do, I bought a car.

This car. A 1994 red Eagle Talon. This car gave me reason to believe that I was in there somewhere; beneath the failure and disappointment was a girl worthy of this car. On more than one occasion I would get up from my desk, my couch, my darkness, walk to a window, look out at my car and feel a bit more confident and a lot more myself. There is no shame in using whatever you can to get through dark days. Especially when the thing you use is just a car and not a person.

But back to the music.

Everyone has a song that takes them back to a moment. Some are moments we want to relive, some are not. The older you get, though, the more likely you are to discover a few songs that linger as anthems for certain periods in your life. I have two that stand above the rest and, oddly, they are only about 2 years apart for me and start with a divorce and end with a wedding. In that order.

Ace of Base, The Sign. Imagine the summer of 94, sunshine, my red Eagle Talon, shades on, divorce diet body, radio blaring Ace of Base screaming out for me to the universe that I am so over it, no one’s going to drag me up to get into the light, you would hardly recognize me, how could a person like you bring me joy, oh my God are you kidding me I SAW THE SIGN AND IT OPENED UP MY EYES. (Try to ignore the car seat in the back of the car, it could kill the visual.) Air in my lungs, friends, I can be happy if I just believe that Ace of Base is talking to me and that I belong in some light thank you very much. To this day, I know every word and can feel the same I’m going to live through this and be better on the other side emotion. To. This. Day. Like an anthem or my own personal soundtrack I looked for music that summer to just get me through to the other side. Other songs fit, but none so permanently as that one. The lyrics, the base that would shake my mirrors a little when I really cranked up the stereo, the idea that someone else had been where I was and was strong enough to write the lyric why would I bother, when you’re not the one for me. Guilty pleasure my ass, that song is a classic. That song took me from non-stop tears to mini-skirts and the pure joy of being in my 20s with a hot car.

Which lead me to my next song. I can only assume that the mini skirt and the hot car were elements of interest to the guy I ran into at the bar on ladies night in 1995. (Our story isn’t one you want to tell your grandmother but, it beats I found him on the internet.) By then my Ace of Base therapy had built me up so much that when we talked I actually said “just so you know, I’m not interested in anything serious”. I was 24, a year out of my divorce and having a great time with my new car and my still divorce-dieted body. It was August, still summer, and I was sure that while this was a pretty cute guy, he was just another interesting someone I would pass some time with. [If in reading this you decide I spent a year reckless and wild, well, that would be a harsh judgement. And probably unfair(ish).]  Regardless, only a few short months later and much to the dismay of some friends and my still shaken mother, I found myself engaged to be married as quickly as we could arrange it.

I should have had doubts. He should have had serious doubts. And then Miss Mariah Carey sang what was in my heart.
Soft heavenly eyes gazed into me, when I saw you I could not breathe, I’d never be the same, once in a lifetime love rushes in changing you with the tide, dawn’s ribbon of light bursts through the dark. Shut. Up. I can’t sing. Really. At all. But I belted that song every day until our one year to the day we met August wedding. I have vivid memories of sobbing through it many times so thankful I had found someone that wanted to be happy and more than anything wanted to be happy with me and my sweet son. I asked a friend of mine to sing it at our reception; I cried through that, too. The song still reminds me of what it felt like to be so completely sure of something, someone, so totally and hopelessly in love that even on days when it feels like forever ago, I can’t argue with that girl, I know she was right. She was totally transformed. There all at once was you. Without an end. You are the one for me, your eyes told me so. Shout it from the mountaintops friends, this anthem meant it had all been worth it, I was officially and formally on the other side. I had not only survived, I would never be the same. Better yet, I had somehow bumped into the one person who saw through all the crap and loved me back. Thank you Mariah, you nailed it.

Music takes you away, makes you feel happy or sad, makes you feel. These two anthems of my life still have an effect, the same as the first time I heard them. No matter how bad my voice is, I’ll still sing them at full volume thankful to have had someone else give me the words to express my feelings.

Loud and clear.

I did not greet motherhood with the grace I had hoped for. As a matter of full disclosure, I distinctly remember looking over at the baby in the bassinet beside my hospital bed and thinking, “That’s a cute baby” as if it belonged to a friend or someone at the restaurant table beside me. I quickly gathered myself and ask to hold the baby because I knew that’s what I should ask. But I can’t say I did so with motherly love in my heart. I didn’t feel that flush of love upon first holding my newborn son, not when I fed him, not even later that day.

I could blame the drugs, I was coming out of c-section painkillers. I could blame my inexperience, I was only 21. I could argue that I was a bit terrified that they were handing me a little person for whom I would be responsible and that I was sure I didn’t have a clue what to do with, but that’s not entirely true. I knew I wanted a baby, I planned for a baby, I prepared for my newborn with the support of my family and I had even rehearsed with a cousin’s baby so I wasn’t unprepared. But still, I wasn’t rushed with the motherly heartache that has been described before.

We (that cute baby and me) were in the hospital together for a few days following our first meeting. We got to know each other a little, but our relationship was guarded at first. For some reason, on our last night there, my room was changed. Maybe it was the change in scenery, maybe it was the hysterical new mom sharing my new room who thought her breast milk coming in was cause for panic, maybe it was because I was all alone that night, just me and that cute baby. Maybe. Or maybe it was just time.

What I remember was pulling our privacy curtain, laying him down on the hospital bed beside me so our heads were side by side. We weren’t looking at each other, we were cheek to cheek facing the world in front of us. It was the beginning of how we would spend every day, from that moment on. Together. Facing whatever was in front of us. Sure of each other and certain we would figure it out, whatever it was.

Tomorrow, that baby turns 23. 23 is a lot. It’s a lot of time and history and more than that, it’s a lot of good, bad, and ugly. It’s time that we understood each other and time that we didn’t. It’s time that we liked each other and time that we didn’t. It’s time spent in battle and time of shared victory. It’s not a lifetime. Not yet.

I take comfort in remembering that night 23 years ago. It was the first time I remember feeling like everything stopped around me and that I had a “We”. People come and go. Mothers and their children, that is permanent. That “We” can’t be broken.

They say that mothers lose their sons once they get married. I imagine that as much as I will fight it, I’ll take my back seat as gracefully as possible when I’m required to take it. I’ll still have that night, in a hospital bed, cheek to cheek where I promised to always be beside that cute baby, to protect him from hysterical new moms, to shield him from anything scary, to keep him safe. Had I known what a ridiculously impossible promise that was, I still would have made it.

It’s a lot, 23 years. Not enough to call a lifetime, not yet, but still a lot. It’s a long time for a promise to stand and yet it has. I haven’t kept him from the scary things, but I have kept my promise to be beside him when they happen. Even if it’s not physically beside him.

I won’t be beside him on his birthday this year, that cute baby. But sometime tomorrow, I hope he gets a feeling that I’m there, facing whatever is in front of him. Still together. Still his mom.

After all, I was right about him when we first met. He is pretty cute.

The Pretty/Hot Debate (not hot flash hot, the other kind).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TjbLJCuH5CI

I’m not in the business of selling makeup although I have used Bare Minerals and I do think it’s a good product. Actually, I caught this commercial and was inspired. I felt compelled to write through a debate that is as old as the minerals that are in the makeup.

It’s the pretty/beautiful/hot debate.

The old let’s get this argument started debate is, which would you rather be? Pretty? Beautiful? Or hot? Answer quickly and the judgements come quickly.

For example, if you answer hot, you’re shallow and gasp! slutty. Hot is for 20 year olds who have no substance. Hot means  you think people of the opposite sex want you. Hot is that men want you and women want to be you crap. Purely physical. Blech.

Your answer is pretty? Pretty is for sunsets and skylines. Pretty is what you call your son’s girlfriend (the one you secretly wish he’ll marry because she’s a good girl). Pretty is polite and easy to toss around. She has a pretty face is the unspoken death for all fat girls. It means, if she would just drop a few hundred pounds, she could be hot. But what a pretty face. Blech.

Beautiful? Beauty is the deep one, the inside and out, the long and winding road, the winner of the trifecta of looks. Beauty means you are the total package. Good hearted as well as gorgeous. Blech.

Ok, you caught me, clearly beautiful is the “right answer”. I. Don’t. Buy. It.

I think the right answer is you want to be all three. At any given time. Whatever you need at the moment. We have all been in those situations where pretty will do. Church. First time you meet his parents. School events for your kids. Honestly, most of the time, pretty is all you need. It’s quiet and unassuming, it means you don’t draw a lot of attention to yourself, it’s easy to get through whatever with pretty. Hi, it’s just me, carry on.

Sometimes, I don’t care who you are, you need to feel like the hot girl (or guy). Crowded room, all eyes on you, rocking the whatever you are wearing, I’ve got my shit totally together hot girl. Everyone knows hot girls exude confidence. Quite honestly, who doesn’t need some of that sometimes. If your confidence is in question for any reason and you’re having a particularly good hair day, it’s much easier to overcome something and throw your shoulders back. Check out my awesome shoes while I pull myself together. Absolutely, whatever you need. I recognize hotness isn’t all physical. Especially smart can be pretty hot in the right circumstance so let your nerd flag fly if it’s going to help you work it out. Scantily clad can look desperate a lot faster than it looks hot, so it’s easy to understand why “hot” takes a beating. If we’re completely honest, though, everyone needs hot from time to time. Let’s not be so hard on those folks at those times.

Beautiful though, that’s the one you want on your tombstone. Beautiful mind, beautiful spirit, beautiful is the lasting one. The one that you need in your marriage. The you just crawled into bed in the middle of the worst stomach virus ever please could you get me a wet rag desperate sad eyes to your spouse who can look at you and through the pale pasty vomit face see you as the beautiful girl who puts his clothes away without complaining. The beauty that made him amazing children, the beauty that will be there to get the wet rag in a few days when you have passed along the virus. Really beautiful means you can outlast all the bad hair days and the heavier than usuals and the snotty cries that make up a lifetime of days to be judged. But you don’t need to be beautiful to everyone, because that would be exhausting.

Bare Minerals may say beauty is what you do with pretty; I’d say it’s one of a set of things I need to be depending on my current situation. Let’s end the debate of what would you rather be pretty/beautiful/hot with a resounding yes, I want to be that. All of that. Whenever it’s what I need to be. Pretty, yes, please. Hot, when I need it, sure. Beautiful, to the one’s that matter, absolutely.

Sometimes I’ll even let my nerd flag fly.

Remembering the 2010 Olympics

This originally ran four years ago but after reading it over, it holds up.

It’s almost over…the Canadian Winter Olympics…and there are some clear messages that resound from the mountaintops of Vancouver:

Ain’t No Party Like a Canadian Party: That’s right, those women’s hockey players were partying like it’s 1999, or at least like they’d cracked open a bottle of 1999 champagne. Regardless, they didn’t care to show a revered Olympic attitude, they were all about the celebration. My opinion, party on girls, you earned it!

Everybody Loves a Good Story: Did you notice how many “features” the media created for athletes in this Olympics? And how interesting was it that the stories that were most interesting were those that weren’t created and crafted by the media…the Georgian athletes overcoming the loss of their friend, the Canadian skater overcoming the loss of her mother, that crazy American Shaun White who could not contain his joy when he knew he’d won. Don’t force us to like someone NBC, we’ll figure out who is for real.

American’s are Tough to Satisfy: Imagine how silly we seem to countries that send athletes that NEVER win, never even medal in an Olympics while we, as a country, grumble and complain when we don’t win a gold. Sometimes the bad attitude of the collective U.S. is overwhelming.

Curling is Just Weird: Really a lot of the winter sports are strange…curling, luge, the whole skiing and shooting thing…who does that??? Not to mention the downhill sports where I’ve got to figure out gates and flagpoles and all kinds of strange things placed on the mountain. I mean honestly, have you skied? It’s hard enough to stay upright, must you really put something in my path??? I think I’ll just sit that one out.

The Olympics is a unifying time, an interesting two weeks where across the US each of us become experts at a triple sow cow (is that really how that’s spelled?). But more than anything, it’s an opportunity for us to join together, raise our flags proudly and say…way to curl that thing dude, go USA!